


Taken By His Majesty

by Pookaseraph



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Roman, BAMF!Charles, Background Het, Celts, Charles is a slut in every era, Consent Issues, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Master/Slave, Rebellion, Romance, Slavery, don't learn history from this fanfic, historical views of homosexuality, sword fights
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-25
Updated: 2011-11-03
Packaged: 2017-10-24 22:48:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 27,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/268753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pookaseraph/pseuds/Pookaseraph
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik's mission was simple, sneak into the Celtic pretender king's tent, assassinate him, and return to Rome with his father's honor restored. Unfortunately, he didn't count on Charles. When the prince chooses to take him as his personal slave, Erik feared the worst, and his concerns weren't entirely unwarranted. The worst, however, turns out to be falling in love with the greatest enemy of Rome's primacy in Briton. A historical romance set during the early days of Rome's occupation of Briton.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Taken By His Majesty｜為君所屬](https://archiveofourown.org/works/638070) by [janusrome](https://archiveofourown.org/users/janusrome/pseuds/janusrome)



> This fanfic is - as usual - all Regann's fault. We had been discussing writing historical AUs and I had decided I wanted to write something with an exceptionally toppy Erik with some dubcon elements that bordered on noncon, etc. Then she mentioned (slash reminded me of) Boudica's 60-61 AD rebellion against Rome and then nothing would do but for me to write with that era in mind. Fassy's hilariously epic performance in Centurion meant he couldn't be anything but a Roman legionary and it went from there. Then Charles ended up all toppy instead of Erik - mostly I ended up writing the exact opposite of what I intended to write when I set out. All Regann's fault.
> 
> Historical notes are at the end. Additionally, if you're one of those people who read the warnings and didn't get turned off right away but found yourself going 'I don't know, depending on how it's handled maybe I'd like that, I really wish I knew what sort/variety of non-con was going to be going on' then there are notes for you! At the end of the first chapter (below the historical notes) there is a brief explanation of the nature of the non-con.

The procession of Celts up the Ermine Street had left Londinium two days ago, and Erik had never been so grateful for the lazy and leisurely pace the wedding party had set for themselves. He and his men were forced to travel overland and far outside of the range of the Celtic scouts who traveled up and down their lines. They couldn't even be called proper lines, not really. Celtic discipline was notoriously shoddy, they yelled, they screamed, they broke rank, they couldn't form a proper line or a battle formation, and yet... Erik had heard the reports from the survivors of the Battle of Watling Street and they had been anything but dismissive. Erik bristled from even the momentary reminder of the failure.

His father, Gaius Suetonius Paulinus, had taken 10,000 men against at least 80,000 Celtic warriors; a legionary on any day should have been worth at least ten Celts, at least that was what had been bandied about when Suetonius had taken well trained auxiliaries and perfectly selected terrain and turned what should have been a stirring victory into a crushing defeat. Nero had almost given up on the island, but only the pathetic whining of Cogidubnus and Cartimandua and the complete arrogance of that bitch Iceni, Emma, and her son - the self-styled Rex Britannia - had kept the Romans there at all.

That was all about to change, however. The consolidation of the south east of the island under the Iceni tribe was held together only by the tenuous will of Emma and the mutual hate of Rome that seemed to lie buried in the heart of every Celt, with two strokes Erik intended to crush that tie and avenge his fallen father and his shattered honor.

Even from the distance they were forced to keep, far off into the countryside, it was easy to spot the 'rex', Charles; he swirled among the men - figurehead as he was - and Erik imagined he must have smiled, and perhaps had the occasional stirring speech - fed to him by his mother, no doubt - as he lead his men carefully to slaughter in the north among the Brigantes.

"Sir?" The tentative question came from one of his men as night began to fall.

"We will move shortly. I want nothing but clear ground between us and their camp when true night falls."

Moving a true army in the middle of the night was pure folly, the new moon and typical clouds and fog made it even more so, but Erik only had less than half a century under his command. This wasn't meant to be a combat, this wasn't meant to be a battle, it was meant only to be an assassination. Erik would have gone alone if it weren't for his specific instructions to the contrary.

"Gods with us, they will not even notice their princeling is dead until it is done."

The soldier seemed satisfied and moved to relay the news. They were Romans, Roman legionaries, and none of them had so much as taken off his pack or toed out of a sandal because Erik hadn't commanded it; that was Roman discipline. They were on the move shortly, moving slowly to keep from making noise that would attract the attention of sentries, down out of the distant hills and into the open terrain where the war-wedding party was sprawled. Passed out drunk, every one of them, certainly.

As they approached the edge of the camp, a few soldiers each broke off to sweep forward through the camp, searching for the prince and his queen-mother. If he was lucky he might also manage to take the princeling's sister with him as well. The loss of both of the children would shatter any unity among the tribes. Erik quickened his pace, desperately wanting the honor of killing Charles for himself. His tent was not hard to find, a ridiculous tent done up in silks instead of wools or hides, the light flicker of a fire banked or dying the only illumination.

Erik fingered the dagger at his waist, drawing it as he stepped inside into a small receiving area, abandoned, no soldiers and no servants. The flap that would have separated the front of the tent from the back was drawn open, and Erik stepped carefully through, mindful of his footing and his breathing. The princeling, Charles, sprawled out in sleep wearing nothing but breeches and a blanket of patched together pelts. Up close he was even more pathetic than Erik could have imagined, small, fair, with barely a scar or scratch on him, and with lips that looked painted like a woman's. He looked more like a slave meant to be kept for pleasure than anyone Erik would have trusted to go into battle with.

He suppressed the immediate urge to fall upon him - too much chance of noise - and stepped carefully around to the prince's side and got down on one knee. His free hand went to the prince's mouth and the dagger was aimed for his torc-clad throat. The boy woke - not at all groggy - before Erik could strike, his hand landed on Charles' mouth but he rolled just enough to avoid the blow. Charles' cried out, but was muffled, and Erik knew no one could make it in time even if they'd heard. What he did not expect was the dagger drawn from beneath the folds of furs that slid right between the thin plates of his armor and piercing him just below the ribs, shallow, but painful.

Erik staggered, and the prince's free hand pressed against him and rolled him off.

"ARMS!" Charles yelled, latin - Erik noticed, dimly, before shouting again, something in gaelic. Charles looked back to where Erik lay, bleeding, an emotion that Erik couldn't quite tell what it was crossed the princes' face. Erik was too busy fading into an inky blackness that felt suspiciously like death to care.

The last thing he saw was the prince grabbing for his sword and shield and charging out into the night.

* * *

Erik woke up. He was in pain, and decidedly not in the land of the dead, or anywhere else that might have been more welcome than approximately thirty miles north of Londinium, on Ermine Way, in the Briton princelings tent. He tried to move, found his legs were tied and his hands bound loosely behind his back. He stretched just enough to see that the wound that prince had given him had been bound and he'd been stripped down to his breeches. The Celts had no intention of letting him die, then, either. He thought he might have preferred the somewhat honorable death in his attempt than this.

There were two guards now, flanking the entrance to the back of the tent, the prince himself nowhere in sight. The light from outside suggested early morning, pre-dawn, just red and grey enough to move about.

He tilted his head, slightly at first, looking for his weapons or armor or anything else that he might have used to cut his ropes and escape, but found nothing. His movements alerted the guards he was awake, however, and he expected a kick, or worse, for his troubles and didn't even get that satisfaction. What little energy he had, he wasted so he could at least kneel rather than lay on his side like a dog.

His legs were already aching by the time the prince deigned to return to his tent.

The prince still looked ridiculous, short, wiry, and pale. His perfect skin was at least marred by a bandage on his shoulder - no doubt acquired by some Roman stabbing him in the back when he fled like a startled hare. It was probably too much to hope for that he would develop some sort of infection and die of that. Erik raised his chin, the only defiance he could truly manage under the circumstances. The prince nodded to the two guards and the left him, and they were alone again. The boy had a dagger at least, and Erik's eyes flicked down while he considered how he might acquire it.

"A proper centurion." The perfectly formed latin was surprising, and the prince seemed absolutely delighted. "My lucky day, it seems."

Erik frowned, he'd worn nothing to indicate his rank - or his legion - and was curious how the prince had plucked that information from his mind. "How have you decided that I am a centurion, princeling?"

Charles ignored the diminutive insult, smiling anyway, his eyes were a terrifying icy blue, but Erik couldn't see any malice there. "It is difficult to hide the fine quality of sword and dagger and armor compared to your compatriots. Not that their arms are in disrepair, just yours are obviously of the highest quality." The boy was too clever, or his bitch-mother, or both.

"Where are my men?" There was no use pretending otherwise if the prince already was aware of his rank.

"Some dead. Some fled. Most have been captured and leave for Londinium at dawn." Slaves.

"And me?"

"Mother suggested you would be a suitable gift for my bride-to-be." Charles hunched down onto the balls of his feet so they were nearly level, Erik just slightly taller now while the prince leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "I think I should like to keep you for myself."

All of the dozens - if not hundreds - of ways that the prince might choose to abuse him flashed through Erik's mind in an instant, the first of which seemed painfully likely given his continued presence in the prince's bed while the guards had been dismissed. When Charles reached out it took all of his will not to flinch back, but the prince's hand merely touched the bandage at his side, probing gently. Erik was surprised to find it wasn't painful, although his fingers avoided the worst of the cut.

"Does it hurt?"

He considered not answering. "No." After a moment he added: "It was a poor strike, too shallow."

"That was rather the point." Charles stood, brushed his hands down his pants and then looked around as though he wasn't quite certain what to do with himself. "Get yourself sorted, we leave shortly."

Erik wasn't certain what the prince meant by 'getting himself sorted' but he realized he was probably going to be walking, likely hands tied, so he began to wriggle his arms to get the knotted rope at his wrist in front of him. It was painful, pulling at the wound and dressing, but it didn't take long and he stayed kneeling as the prince circled around the room, packing away his bedding.

"So what are you called, Centurion?"

Erik considered. "Gaius Eriqus Paulinus."

"Eriqus?" Charles tried the name around on his tongue a second time. "Erik?"

He was irritated to hear his name on Charles' lips, and glowered at him, ignoring the way that Charles smiled at him in return.

"Suetonius Paulinus?" Charles asked, clearly understanding naming conventions enough to know they must be related.

Erik's frown deepened. "My father."

"Ah." Charles pulled on a tunic and belt, raking his fingers through his hair. "He was a brilliant tactician."

Of all of the things he'd expected to hear from a Celt concerning his father, that was not anything he had considered. The prince was right, his father was brilliant, and it had been universally acknowledged before his defeat on the Watling Street. "Yes, he was."

A few moments of silence passed; Charles touched and carefully adjusted the gold torc at his throat, neatened his hair again and then donned his sandals. Erik found himself more and more confused by the prince, he was casual, for all his latin was perfect and spoken with an accent that would not have been out of place in Rome itself, and he spoke with an easy self assurance. The Celts made their place in the world through combat, and yet Charles did not look like he would do well anywhere but the back of a line.

His introspection was interrupted by another Celt entering, passing Charles a plate of food and then saying something that Erik could not understand in gaelic.

"It seems we will have to vacate while the tent is taken down." He drew his knife and cut the bonds at Erik's feet. "Up. Do not think of running. I would prefer not to damage you more than I already have."

Erik struggled to his feet, wishing he could rub his ankles to restore some of the circulation there, but he walked out of the tent and into the dawn. All around him, the camp was full of activity; Erik walked along side the prince, trying to keep as much of his dignity as he could, stripped down as he was to pants and sandals. Most of the tents were already stowed and packed. For a procession that contained the prince, his sister and his mother they were up and moving remarkably early.

They walked through camp, Erik continuing to trail after, watching and listening to the coarse tongue of the Celts that was all around him. Charles answered them easily, casual again, and Erik wondered how they could retain discipline with a man like the prince at the head of their army.

"Charles, are you really going to keep him?" The question came from a blonde girl with a pretty, round face and bright eyes that almost matched Charles' in brilliance. Charles greeted her with a hug, and he realized this must be the princess, Raven.

"Yes, no doubt my bride will have more than enough servants and slaves, and if not we shall win her some when we take back her tribe from her mother."

Erik snorted - Cartimandua ruled the Brigantes tribe with the consent of the Empire, her husband, Venutius, had wanted to break with the Empire and his wife had set him aside. Venutius was apparently content to whore his only daughter - Moira - to the prince to keep his pathetic territory. Charles' boldness in thinking that they would be able to defeat the Brigantes and their Roman allies was laughable. Raven stepped up to him and slapped him hard across the face.

"My brother will bleed as many Romans as it takes to remove your stain from our island." Erik blinked, shocked at her words and the sting of her slap. She hit hard - especially for a woman - but then her mother was the Iceni whore who likely had lain with something unnatural to produce the prince and princess. "Have you already forgotten that he's taken you once?"

The conversation between them shifted seamlessly back into the babble of gaelic that he could not understand and he was content to stand there, cheek still stinging slightly from the slap. The tone between the brother and sister was light, but Erik could hear a touch of discord there. He wished he could understand the two of them, wondering if he might be able to drive a wedge between them if he understood the cause of their argument.

Raven left a few moments later, apparently content enough that Erik assumed the disagreement couldn't have been over something of importance. No luck there.

Charles finished with the food he had been eating, finally passing the plate to Erik and he stared down at the small chunk of bread with some sort of game fowl meat stuffed inside. He looked at it again, confused by Charles' meaning in giving it to him. "If you do not wish to eat it, you can wait until we stop at midday."

He didn't need to be told twice and scarfed down the food quickly after that. Charles took the plate and handed it to a passing Celt. The same one returned later with a sword and helmet, which he donned slowly before finally reaching the edge of camp where the bitch-queen stood next to a blindingly white horse.

She was beautiful, despite what the Romans might say about her, with icy blonde hair and cold eyes that didn't have the same warmth as the prince's. She tied a cloak at Charles' neck, smoothed it down over his shoulders, and then had a brief conversation with him. He appeared to have at least a passing mention in the conversation, or at least his father, Suetonius, was mentioned. The queen looked down on him like he had come out of the rear end of a horse. Erik ignored her.

* * *

The Celts were ready to move not long after dawn, and when Erik considered that they had suffered a late night attack the night before it was actually somewhat impressive. They made good time, and had gone almost seven miles before they stopped for midday.

Charles dismounted easily - and Erik decided that Charles' bitch mother must have been mounted by a horse, it was the only explanation for the way he seemed to ride like he'd been born in a saddle. The prince handed him a pair of water skins and then pointed off into the distance where he saw several Celts - maybe slaves, maybe not - heading in that direction.

"Fill them, make certain you drink your fill as well, we will not stop again." He watched the prince stretch and shake out his legs slightly, taking the horse by the bridle and heading farther downstream. "And I warn you, I am quite good with a sling."

That was all he said, leaving Erik feeling somewhat awkwardly torn. There was nothing even resembling a forest or hills where he might conceivably escape to, even if it wasn't by Charles himself he would have been easily run down. No doubt the entire column was aware of his situation by now. Resigned, he followed after the others towards the stream and drank some, filled the flasks, and then took the opportunity to scrub some water into his hair to relieve some of the grit there.

When he returned to the road he didn't immediately see Charles or the queen-bitch - or her white horse - but that did not keep the sister from finding him. She was astride her own horse, a blue roan, looking down at him.

"Well, get him his lunch." She tilted her head towards a supply wagon and then said something in gaelic. He looked at her dumbly, and she said the same thing again. "Say it back to me."

He probably mangled it, but she nodded, deciding it was well enough before she headed off towards the stream, probably to water her own horse. At the supply wagon he tried the phrase at the slave there, he was looked up and down and then a few of the surrounding men laughed, echoing something that sounded close to what he had said. Still he got a decent sized cut of some sort of dried-smoked meat and a revolting looking soft cheese, most of the bread that might have been baked in Londinium had long since gone stale-ish, but he got a crust of bread as well. He took the whole lot towards the head of the column that was milling about only to find that Charles had returned and was now... sprawled out, completely undignified, on the grass just off the side of the road.

When Charles told him to, he sat, and then watched as the prince picked at his lunch slowly.

"I hate carting ourselves off to war." The prince sounded... petulant, perhaps. Erik bristled. "But I am certain you know how difficult it is to maintain good discipline and moral among the army." Erik stared - confused by what the prince was trying to say. Charles looked him over and then spoke again, more slowly, as though he thought Erik might not have understood him. "These troops are well trained, the ones that Venutius will have on offer will not be."

Erik looked over at the troops behind him; they were not legionaries. He asked Charles what the gaelic his sister had taught him meant.

"For the prince, roughly." Charles pulled apart a piece of the meat and offered it over to Erik. He didn't pause, just took it and ate it more slowly than he had breakfast. "It indicates your service to me and solicits items - in this case food - in my name."

Erik didn't care for the grammar lesson, but he still took the chunk of bread that Charles passed a moment later. Learning any of the strange Celtic tongue seemed like a surrender to his current position. Slave. By any Roman law, if Charles had been a Roman soldier and Erik the barbarian, Erik would have been considered a slave. He still hadn't given up on his freedom. Charles was not Roman, he was Iceni, a Celt traitor-usurper to Nero's rightful property in Briton.

"If these are the men who have been trained, I do not envy you the ones Venutius will bring with him from the Brigantes."

Charles just smiled and looked down the line towards the Celts who stretched and paced and went to water their horses or fill their water skins. "Many of them served at Watling Street, they know how to fight both Celts and Romans."

He glowered down at the men, wondered how many of them carried scars from a javelin or gladius, and if one of them might have been the one who struck down his own father. "How was it done?" Charles didn't say anything, blue eyes confused. "Watling Street."

"What do they say down in Rome? Druidic witchcraft and savage and barbarous magic?"

"What else."

"And what do you believe?" Charles tilted the wooden plate-board that Erik had brought him back towards him, all that was left was the strange crumbled cheese. Erik sniffed at it. Charles just laughed at it. "Sheep's milk cheese, it's soft cheese, but more than palatable."

Erik took one of the chunks and tried it, it was well enough, but he said nothing, not wanting to admit that Charles was right. "I do not think my father would have been taken by witchcraft."

"No. I do not think so, either."

"What, then?"

Charles didn't answer, and Erik realized that the boy probably didn't know. He was barely old enough to hold property and be considered a citizen, he would have been perhaps thirteen or fourteen four years ago during the battle. He'd probably been clinging to his mother's teat while she carried the day.

"Some of the Romans who survived that day and carried themselves down to the Regni territory said the Celts fought ferociously, but not like Romans."

"We are not Romans, so that is only logical." Charles plucked up a blade of grass, turning it over in his hands. "Standing in a line face to face with men far better armed and drilled is folly."

That was the logic that made the Roman legions superior to the haphazard Celtic forces, they preferred leathers, didn't carry much beyond sword, shield, and dagger, they were mobile and quick, but not quick enough to respond to the well-drilled tactics of the legion. They were also far more likely to break ranks and run if the battle turned sour, leaving themselves crushed against their brothers as they were set upon from behind.

"So then how does one defeat the legion?" Erik asked, but he didn't expect an answer; Charles was a child, he didn't understand how a true battle would be resolved.

"The same way one defeats a single Centurion, with a quick strike that slides between heavy defenses." Charles stretched, sat up slowly, and pressed his finger next to the wound. "We simply take the best pieces of ourselves, and the best of Rome, and combine them into something that is uniquely suited."

The prince stood, and waved his hand and a call started to pass down the line. They were apparently ready to move again. Erik scanned the distance and saw that there were only a few stragglers returning from the stream with horses or skins and lunch had largely been taken.

"You're pressing them like an army on the move," Erik said, almost impressed.

"That is what we are, isn't it? Celtic warriors at my back as I ride to face two fearsome Brigantes women."

"Two?" Erik asked, while Charles tied the end of Erik's bonds to his saddle.

Charles grinned, mounting up again easily and running his fingers through his hair. "My future wife and my future mother in law."

Erik didn't think particularly highly of a princeling who would be concerned with the his future wife. Perhaps Erik had misjudged, however, the Celts were savages and let their women into battle, it was entirely possible his wife could snap the boy in half.

Erik was spared the worst of the road dust, as the prince road towards the head of the column. Likely it was because Charles did not yet trust him to stay if he'd been allowed towards the back with most of the other slaves - which was wise.

They eventually stopped again well before dusk, and camp broke into life all around them. Charles finally released his bound hands and Erik realized it would be unwise to test the limits of the prince's goodwill too far. The mousey slave from the morning - Hank, apparently, who was also fluent in latin - showed Erik where the prince's horse was kept, and for the first time since the morning he was outside of the boy's presence for longer than an hour.

He was never out from under _someone's_ gaze, however, and the temptation to run was usually dampened by that knowledge. Strange people pushed him through a few basic tasks in a stranger tongue - water for the prince's tent, brushing out tangles from the horse's mane, checking legs and hooves for injuries or stones, and finally standing in line to fetch dinner. He could almost pretend he was among his own men - smellier, stinking of mead and ale, but warriors nonetheless. His illusion was frequently shattered by sharp cries from quarrels or battles, or the presence of a woman armed similarly to one of the men, but he appreciated the illusion when he could cling to it.

When he returned with supper, Charles was in his tent, naked and casually washing himself while Erik found he was unable to do anything but watch. The prince's neck was lightly pink with sun, ruining his fair skin, and an unexpected smattering of freckles played across his back, hidden only beneath the bandage he was still wearing. He was lean, and as he moved Erik could see the way muscles played under softer skin, but that was nothing compared to the pretty curve of the prince's ass and the nicely formed legs below. Thoughts from the night before, where Erik had thought the prince looked like the perfect pleasure slave returned unbidden and he felt his throat grow dry and his eyes slightly heavy from the thought.

Charles turned, although he must have known Erik had been there for some time, and gave Erik a smile that was somehow bashful and seductive at the same time. Erik's eyes flicked down, unbidden, taking in the new details of the prince's body, he was almost hairless but for a light dusting down his stomach, and ... lower. Erik barely managed to tear his eyes away, looking towards the tent flap when Charles came over and took the bowl Erik had brought, his own hands a vice grip as he struggled for self-control.

He set down the bowl and the - mercifully - stepped into breeches and spared Erik the worst of his reasons to stare. "You'd best take advantage of the chance to wash."

Erik hurried over to the bucket and splashed his face with the water, cold enough to give him at least some clarity, his back to Charles he started to scrub his hair and wash the worst of the dirt from his shoulders, while he avoided getting the bandage around his ribs wet. He could feel Charles' eyes on him, hot, burning into his back, and even that made his throat dry.

When he turned to check over his shoulder he saw that Charles was watching him, his bright blue eyes dark and lidded, his fingers playing with his lips, dinner completely ignored. He watched for a moment longer, the prince's breathing was shallow and rapid.

The sinking realization that Charles wanted to use him, was likely going to use him - like a woman - settled in to Erik's chest and his fingers curled into the wood of the bucket, struggling for some way to keep his honor. His eyes flicked behind him and Charles' eyes pointedly traveled down Erik's back. Slowly, he undid his pants, fingers trembling, nervous like some virgin, expecting the prince to fall on him at any moment.

He pushed down his pants, ignoring his fear, ignoring the presence of the prince. But it was impossible to ignore the low moan from the man behind him, and a glance behind him found him lounging in his chair, hips canted forward and his hand palming himself through his trousers. Erik turned back to his bucket and slowly started to wash his legs, torn between bending over or lifting a leg. He tried to be economical, scrubbing himself impersonally, pretending that Charles - his audience - was not even there.

It was an impossible task, Charles continued to make breathy gasps as Erik moved, and the sounds had a wrenching effect on him, twisting and leaving unexpected heat low in his belly. Even the slight chill of the water couldn't keep his cock from twitching.

Erik blamed Charles, Charles with his bright red lips and perfect ass and pale skin and his impossibly blue eyes. In another life he would have... would have thrown Charles down onto a bed or the ground and fucked those whimpers out of him, but even though Erik was the slave to be used his body wouldn't stop reacting to those sounds.

"Come here, let me touch you." Erik turned to Charles, already embarrassingly half-hard, just erect enough that Charles would have to be blind not to notice. His body didn't seem to know the difference, though, between master and slave, because he was all too willing to come to Charles, his eyes fluttering closed when lightly calloused fingers ran down his chest and sides.

All he could feel was Charles' hands running over him, touching, lightly squeezing, feeling the muscles of his thighs and his stomach, and even though the hands came nowhere near his cock his breath was coming faster and harder and he felt Charles' hands on him like fire, leaving a trail of heat along his body that didn't fade even as his hands moved on.

"I could touch you all day," Charles murmured, his lips somewhere near his thigh.

His teeth grazed against Erik's hip bone and Erik whimpered, thrusting forward against his will. He wasn't supposed to like this, he wasn't, but his body had other ideas, and even his mind was having a hard time remembering why he wasn't supposed to enjoy warm hands and soft lips on his body.

It had been too long; Charles looked like a pleasure slave; Charles was touching him, not the reverse. All his excuses faded away when Charles reached behind him and squeezed his ass with both hands, making Erik thrust at his face again and _whine_. Charles was some sort of witch to be able to make him rock hard without even touching his cock, it was painful, even, standing like that, erect, legs straining. Those hands trailed down his ass, along the back of his thighs leaving a tingling feeling and the subconscious urge to spread his legs.

Erik shifted, widening his stance even as he fought with himself. Charles _purred_ , and the sound went straight to his groin and his cock was _leaking_ and that tingling down his thighs was making his legs weak and his head dizzy and he couldn't get enough air, couldn't breathe.

"Gods, look at you... perfect..." Charles' mouth was against his thigh, every move of his mouth brushing lips against him and leaving Erik shivering. "Every inch of you... I need you in my bed. Now."

His legs didn't even allow him the decency to hesitate, nearly sprinting into the back of the tent. Charles was going to fuck him, was going to use him, and Erik's cock throbbed in anticipation, even as he got down on his hands and knees like a fucking dog hesitant-eager and ashamed of himself.

Charles found him like that, face buried in furs, ass in the air and he could hear the prince gasp... "Oh that is delightful." Charles' hands returned, playing up and down his spread thighs, urging his legs farther apart and Erik complied without thinking, just feeling.

Erik's breath came in shuddering gasps and felt warm and boneless and not even the touch of Charles' fingers against his hole could shake him just then, but then his fingers _pressed_ , hard, just behind his balls, and Erik groaned into the furs, his body shaking so much he thought he might have come, but then Charles' hand fell away and his cock was just as hard as before.

"Roll over." Erik did, wordless, and Charles was there over him, naked, cock hard, legs straddling Erik's and looking so perfect. His lips were red, teased full by the Prince's teeth, and his perfect skin was flushed, sweat falling down one brow.

"Perfection." Charles was perfect, and Erik couldn't stop himself from noting it, saying it, making his shame complete.

Charles dipped his head, flushed and embarrassed and pleased. "Touch yourself, touch yourself the way you would to make it last."

Hesitation lasted only a moment and Erik reached down to touch himself, just teasing his tip but he felt raw, over sensitive, he let the precum coat his palm and then slide down his shaft, eyes closing as he tried to think of some fantasy.

It was folly, he had a fantasy sprawled out above him and his eyes opened, taking in Charles' lean frame, the light dusting of hair down his stomach and his cock, fully erect and perfect.

His eyes must have begged for something, because Charles answered, his fingers sliding against the back of his hand. "You are more than welcome to touch."

He grabbed, pulled, his fingers digging into Charles' hip and dragging the prince farther up his body, far enough so that Charles perfectly straddled his hips, close enough that he could have pulled Charles down and fucked him. Charles didn't protest, though, he leaned forward, hand pressed to Erik's chest and moaned, low and soft and he sounded like a damn whore.

"You think I look like a boy you'd pay his master so you could fuck."

"Yes," he answered immediately, not even thinking. Yes, yes, oh yes. He was supposed to make it last but he couldn't, his hand flying up and down his cock.

Charles pressed his hands down on Erik's hips, pinned him, and then slid his own hips forward, brushing his hole against the tip of Erik's cock. He thrust, but Charles' hands held him down and he came, short spurts of cum against the prince's ass. His own body trembled, and he was grabbing the prince's hip so tight it was going to bruise his pale, perfect skin, but the fuzzy and lazy feel of his orgasm fled the moment he realized Charles was still over him, hard and leaking.

Even as his hips tilted up, betraying his mind, Erik scrambled for a way to keep Charles from fucking him. His hand flew from his own cock, still covered in his own semen, and he slid his hand up and down Charles' cock, coating him.

"Oh..." The look on his face was pure ecstasy and he could feel the shaking in the prince's arm as he held himself up with hands pressed to Erik's chest.

Charles couldn't be far from coming, he was only human, and Erik continued to stroke, hard and fast, his other hand searching for whatever spot Charles had pressed against behind his balls. He rubbed, experimentally.

"Gods, Erik, harder."

He thought he might have been able to come again just from hearing those words, but his cock couldn't even manage a twitch. He pushed, harder, up against smooth skin and Charles came, shooting across Erik's stomach and hunching over, panting, trembling and spent.

Safe... safe...

Erik drifted off to gentle murmurs as Charles stroked his hair, some chord cut and slowly unwinding in his spine.

* * * *

Erik woke some time later to find it was dark out and Charles wasn't in bed. Low voices - gaelic - came from the front of the tent, something was being debated, not hotly, but enough for Erik to tell there were at least two - and maybe more - sides to the discussion. He recognized Charles' voice among them easily but the rest weren't ones he recognized. He debated staying curled up in the furs - Briton nights were chilly - but eventually gave it up as a poor excuse, pulling on his pants and shrugging into a tunic and belt before he peaked out from behind the tent flap.

Conversation quieted. Charles turned, saw Erik, and then indicated wordlessly that Erik should stand behind him. Conversation resumed in the same hushed tones.

He did not recognize the particular hillfort, but the table between the assembled Celts obviously contained a diagram of a hillfort, likely one belonging to Cartimandua and the Brigantes. The other drawing he recognized, at least from the symbols on it - one of the outposts for the Legion IX Hispania. They had been crushed by Emma's forces early in the uprising, but new reinforcements had swelled their ranks again in the intervening years.

There were no troop markers, nothing to indicate how battle was expected or would be fought, and Erik wondered if this was a session for planning or just discussion, it was impossible for him to get much but the emotions or tones of the assembled Celts, so he watched them, judging them for himself.

They were young, none of them could have been older than Erik, all of them no more than a few years older than the young princeling. One was blond, with a narrow face but broad enough shoulders, Erik had seen him circling around the prince from time to time, protective. He stood shoulder to shoulder with a brunet with a squarer face, but they had a certain common look about them, maybe brothers or cousins. The next soldier at the table was a woman, tall and more graceful than strong, with long red hair that was tied behind her back. A slightly smaller boy - and he did look like a boy - also with red hair, cropped closer, stood near the red headed woman, those two were likely Brigantes, the red hair being something imported from the parts of their tribe that controlled territory on Eire.

None of them were material that Erik would have selected for war leaders, or confidants to a prince or governor. They were young, obviously enthusiastic, but there was more to war than enthusiasm and having all your arms and legs.

He followed the conversational banter, Charles would ask something - usually of the redheads or the brothers as a pair - they would respond, each filling in or adding to what the other said, and then Charles would consider, make a decision, and then deliver it with calm authority. _Something_ was being planned, but it might have been anything from wedding festivities to an attempted siege on the hillfort or assessing weaknesses of the Ninth's outpost.

It was annoying for Erik to realize that Charles did carry a great deal of authority, and he carried it effortlessly. His mother might have been needed to tame the older members of his tribe, but among the younger generation he could see that Charles' leadership was easily accepted.

"My... generals, perhaps is the best word," Charles explained after he had left. "Alex - the blond, Scott - the brunet, Jean - the woman, and Sean, the red headed man. The last two are of my wife's tribe, Brigantes."

Erik nodded; he would have kept the information in mind even if Charles hadn't obviously been providing it because he wanted it remembered. "They are young."

"Too young, you mean to say?"

Erik frowned slightly, yes, that was what he had meant. Charles didn't wait for an answer, however, and walked over to the side of his tent, pouring himself a drink, wine, maybe. He poured another, and held the cup out for Erik. He took it, sipped cautiously. It was wine, good, nothing like the watered vinegar he might have expected a barbarian prince to favor. Charles sipped his own drink slowly, savoring a mouthful while he thought.

"When do you teach someone to be a good citizen of Rome?"

"When he is young," Erik answered, immediately. It wasn't a difficult question.

"And when do you teach a Celt how to conduct warfare in a way that is different to the way his father and his grandfather conducted it?"

And then Erik understood. Charles' older soldiers were not the same as Roman legionaries, not veterans of a dozen conflicts that proved their ability to hold their lines and change their formations a moment after their Centurion or General commanded it. They were... Celts. They were good for skirmishing and charging over walls with a brutal yell, but against a Roman force in an open field with a General who knew his territory and his men, they were useless.

Charles' generals were the future of his campaign. Erik had no doubt they had been hand selected by Charles, hand trained by the best warriors Charles could pick.

"Tomorrow night I will be entertaining the... traditionalists. You will make certain we are all well served with drink." Charles took another swallow of wine and Erik reflected that it was exceptionally unfair that the red wine seemed to stain his lips an even brighter red than they were naturally. His was a mouth that was born to be wrapped around a man's cock.

"Wine?" He asked to distract himself from his own thoughts.

"Goodness, no. Mead."

Erik made a face and Charles laughed at him. "Not very Roman, is it?"

"You suggested earlier that that was the entire point."

"So I did." The prince looked down into his cup and then inclined his head towards the back of the tent. "Come."

He watched the prince's retreating form with a mix of lust and dread, before he took another look at his own cup and drank the remaining wine down in several quick gulps. Charles had already stripped out of his tunic when Erik arrived a few moments later, but he didn't move to strip farther. The prince gently attacked Erik's belt and then tugged his tunic over his head, his fingers ghosting along his sternum, eyes hungry. "Lay down."

And then Charles turned and left - out into the other part of the tent. Erik did what he was told, but kept himself perched up on his elbows and tried to stay calm.

A few moments later Charles returned with a small chest and set it down, drawing out a small jar of something sickly smelling. Charles was going to... Erik squeezed his eyes shut, felt Charles shift so he was straddling Erik high against his thighs, and then touching his hands against Erik's ribs and...

Then he unwound the bandage against his ribs. Erik opened his eyes.

"You do not need to look like I am going to ravish you at every turn, truly." Charles thought the whole thing was very funny, apparently. Erik gritted his teeth. Charles leaned in, his mouth close enough to Erik's ear so that he could feel Charles' hot breath. "Unless you would like me to?"

Erik's breath quickened, and even he couldn't lie to himself enough to think it was only from fear. "No."

"Pity." Charles pulled back enough for Erik to see his face. At least he wasn't the only one affected by this - his cheeks pink from something more than the sun and his lips parted enough to let out gentle pants.

Still, his fingers were sure and professional as he unwrapped the cloth, and his finger lingered... only slightly more than necessary over the plains of his abs and stomach. Under the bandage there was a folded square of fabric and Erik winced when Charles pulled it away. The wound itself was well cleaned, and neatly stitched by an expert hand. Whoever was responsible for sewing up soldiers they were clearly well practiced.

Charles used the disgusting smelling balm on the wound and he hissed again, it burned, but Erik assumed it was to stop infection. A fresh new pad was placed on the wound and then Charles seemed to give in to whatever desire he'd been fighting, running his hand along Erik's chest, eyes hot again.

"I want to have you," Charles said, and Erik bit down on his lip to stop from making a sound. "I want to push you back and raise your legs and slide into you, taking you so hard that you will scream out 'yes, my prince, harder' for the entire camp to hear." Something that filthy should never have been said in Charles' crisp and precise latin and his flawless Roman accent. "The next day, everyone will see the way you walk beside me, or the way you wince with every shift as you sit behind me on my horse and they will all know exactly how much you are mine."

Erik did _not_ moan. If he did, it was only because Charles had reached down to cup his groin. "Why don't you, then?" He hissed out between clenched teeth, trying to keep his own treacherous body from making another unwelcome sound.

Charles leaned forward, his body barely inches from Erik's. He left one hand on his stomach, fingers softly curled into his flesh there, the other hand stroked Erik's neck and he tilted his head - just barely - exposing more flesh to the prince's fingers. Charles mouth was right next to Erik's ear, when he spoke Erik thought he could almost feel his teeth brushing up against the soft skin there. "Because I have not yet taught you how to scream 'yes, my prince, harder' in gaelic."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Notes at the end. Please enjoy!

Erik slept poorly with Charles pressed up against his back, one arm wrapped around Erik's chest pinning the two of them together. Throughout the night the tickle of hot breath or the occasional twitch of Charles' fingers drove him absolutely mad, and as night started to fade into predawn Erik was awoken by Charles rutting up against his naked ass. It was not pleasant... truly, no matter how much his body wanted to claim otherwise he did not appreciate the princeling...

"Ohh..." His hissed and then whimpered when Charles' hand moved from its position on his chest down to his already half-hard cock, stroking gently. He muffled his next moan into one of the furs that made up the prince's bed.

Charles took his time, lazily stroking and touching Erik while Erik's body struggled to do anything but give in to lingering sleepiness and arousal. Charles seemed to enjoy just touching, his own thrusting paused as he played, fingers and palm tight around Erik. The prince leaned in, nose brushing against the back of Erik's neck.

"Tell me when you are about to come for me." He punctuated his command with a bite, just a soft nip against Erik's ear.

Erik nodded, moaning into the ground. Damn horse-witch-boy-whore had him panting already. Charles continued his leisurely assault, his grip firm. The feeling of another hand on him - different from last night, or any of the other times he touched himself for release - had already started to drive him to distraction. The prince seemed to know exactly how to touch him and please him and he did it wantonly. Charles' mouth stayed close to Erik's throat, his breath quick and labored and hot on his neck. Embarrassingly soon, Erik felt the familiar trembling of his body and the tension in his balls.

"Now," he barely choked out, and Charles' hand went to cover his tip, coating Charles' hand with Erik's come. Erik's cock twitched and his body shivered; the mix of predawn chill and his orgasm overpowering any rational thought.

"Hands and knees." Charles' voice was urgent and Erik's sleep and sex sated body moved slowly to comply.

Charles was behind him before Erik was truly aware of his movements, his erection pressed between Erik's legs. Charles' hand smearing come between his thighs and the warmth there made him shiver in the morning chill. The lazy urge to leave his legs spread wide fled when Charles tugged them closed, thrusting between his legs and groaning, crazed and hot instead of the slow burn from last night.

The resemblance to what Erik had expected from the prince last night was obvious, but rather than leave him tense and afraid he was relaxed. Charles' fingers dug into his thighs. His hands held Erik tight and ran over his back, warm and possessive. Erik experimentally flexed his thighs, squeezing around Charles, and the prince came immediately after in a mumble of 'good, so good, Erik', before he leaned lazily against Erik's back.

At first he thought Charles might just lay there, napping in some post-coital haze, but the stillness didn't last and he pulled away just a few moments later.

"Incredible..." Charles ran his fingers along Erik's back and spine. Lazy touches turned into a light massage; Charles' fingers dug into Erik's back, releasing some of the tension there. "I never thought you would be so..." Erik turned and caught a look on Charles' face, wistful and sad.

Whatever he'd been about to say was never said, and Charles gave Erik's leg a light slap. "Get yourself cleaned up and dressed, we will be riding longer today." And then Charles... kissed him, just a press of lips against his neck, but it embarrassed him completely.

Charles rose, tugged a tunic on and went to wash himself in the front of the tent.

Erik let himself collapse onto his side for a moment, his breathing and his heartbeat finally starting to recover from the prince's ruthless morning assault on his mind and senses. As the fog in his mind started to clear, he realized two things: he'd enjoyed the prince's touch far more than he'd expected and he'd enjoyed it far more than any of the other such encounter in his life.

The thoughts rushing through his head left him confused and shaky, but as soon as Charles had left the tent he rose, scrubbing himself clean and trying to wake himself from the sleepy buzz of a morning orgasm. After he was clean, his mind shied away from what he and Charles had done last night and that morning, slipping into the safer feel of tending to the prince's possessions instead of his body. He slipped into a pair of pants that had arrived sometime yesterday with legs far too long for Charles and obviously meant for him. He shrugged into his tunic and then his belt before he went about packing the few things that Charles had unpacked the night before. It wasn't much, the wine skin and charts from the front of the tent, his fur blankets, and a change of clothes from the back of the tent. After Erik had helped stow the prince's things he saw that the soldiers took care of the tent itself and he went off in search of Charles.

Erik found the prince laughing with one of the men from last night - Sean. He was clinging to a plate in one hand and the other was wrapped around Sean's shoulders, the two of them obviously sharing a good natured joke. Charles looked exceptionally boyish like that, and Erik couldn't help the twist of something that felt too much like fondness for him to be entirely comfortable with it.

"Ah, Erik."

"Princeling," Erik answered, biting out the diminutive to help him deal with how unacceptable his thoughts were.

Charles leaned in and said something in gaelic; after a moment's hesitation, Erik echoed him.

"What does that mean?"

Charles still didn't back away, and even leaned in just a little closer. "It means 'my prince'."

It was completely unfair, but now it was burned into his memory. "My prince." Charles rewarded him with a huge grin.

"Are my things stowed?" Erik nodded. "Good, we will be leaving just after dawn."

Travel along the Roman roads was boring - intentionally so - all of the roads were long, uniform, and generally in an area that would be safe from covert attack. They were designed to move troops up and down the island as quickly as possible, moving supplies and goods and armies. It was difficult to accept that the roads that had been built for Romans were now being used by Celts to bring the fight to his brothers.

"You are thoughtful, today," Charles noted when they were barely away from camp.

Outside of Charles' tent - when the prince couldn't be naked and utterly bewitching - Erik managed to keep a good deal more of his wits about him. Charles dressed in full armor and ready for battle was not the same man as the pale boy with winedrunk lips. "Why did you keep me?"

"I think I have made myself quite... explicit on that point." Erik turned away, fighting down a blush. It seemed as though no one near them spoke latin well enough to catch Charles' meaning, however. Still, rather than continue to tease, Charles changed the subject. "I am interested in you, Erik, and not just your body, your mind as well. Gaius Seutonius Paulinus' son is unlikely to be a fool. Someone thought highly enough of you to send you to kill the boy-king of the Britons."

And Gaius Seutonius Paulinus' son had failed at that charge. "I do not think you would currently find me particularly well recommended by Rome, my prince."

"That is certainly your emperor's loss."

"I do not think the Emperor would have the same level of interest in me as you do."

"Again, your emperor's loss," Charles smiled, twisting slightly to root around in his saddle bag and then he pulled out an apple, holding on to his horse only with his thighs while he cut the apple in half with the knife from his belt. "My interest is entirely selfish."

Erik looked down, still embarrassed by how casually Charles seemed to mention wanting to fuck him. Charles seemed able to read his thoughts, somehow.

"What I mean is that I want to know your mind, Erik. You are obviously very clever and well respected, no amount of nepotism would earn you a century under your command, certainly not after Watling Street, and you are young - as Centurions are counted." He was a grown man compared to the princeling, possibly a decade older or more. He managed to ignore the stinging memory of his father's defeat, barely. "That you were picked to kill me indicates either exceptionally high regard for you and your abilities... or a desire to see you dead. Both are promising if you think about it; there's no reason to see someone dead if they aren't dangerous."

"I will not help you fight Romans." That seemed to be what Charles was talking around, picking his mind for tactics and strategy. He might be incapable of keeping his dignity in Charles' bed, but he would not break on the field, and he would not betray Rome by revealing whatever secrets and advantage he might have to offer.

"Of course not." Charles handed him down a half apple and Erik took it, turning it over in his hands while they continued to walk. "What did you think of the men last night."

"The girl included?" Charles nodded. Erik considered not answering, Charles was obviously fishing for something - advice, perhaps. "I'm surprised you have a woman under you."

"No one more surprised than my mother and sister. I think they were despairing that I would never have a woman under me." Charles' tone made his meaning obvious.

Erik blanched at the bawdy double meaning. Charles might speak latin like a Roman, but he talked sex like a Celt. Erik managed to clear his head just enough to find the irony in the situation. "Perhaps Rome should not be so concerned with your upcoming marriage, then? One can hardly forge a dynasty if the Rex Britannia has no heir." Certainly there had been more than one Emperor in the history of Rome who had been too fascinated with pretty boys to even make an attempt at an heir.

"Mmm, Rex Britannia is it?" He snorted. "I'm certain I can manage the deed, if not I'm certain my wife will be more than willing to cuckold me."

Rumors of Celtic lechery were clearly clearly not over-exaggerated. Certainly there were rumors that such things occasionally happened in the Imperial court, an infertile man or match between close kin providing only stillbirths suddenly producing an heir. Such things weren't something one discussed on horseback with a slave, or even over a polite drink in a back room of a villa. Erik bit into the apple, finding it was crisp and a little tart, good.

"I believe we were discussing my men," Charles prompted when Erik found himself lost in thought for too long.

"I have not seen them in battle," he said, not quite wanting to make an assessment of Charles' men, he had only watched them for a short time, and then he couldn't understand a word they were saying, they might have been hot headed, even handed, useless, or brilliant and Erik wouldn't have known the difference. He wondered if that was the point and that Charles was asking for some reason other than because he thought Erik had a handle on them. "Scott and Alex are hot headed, Alex more so. He's not sure of himself, and the one of the four I would think most likely to break a formation to pursue his own glory or a vendetta."

Charles nodded, but said nothing, he took another bite of apple.

"Sean is... small." He shrugged, no other word for it. "You are slight but he wouldn't stand against a good breeze. Jean seems steady enough, but I'm not certain how she expects to swing a sword."

"They will all surprise you, I think. Alex and Scott I trust with my life - I have been into battle with them dozens of times."

Erik bit back a retort, he knew that he probably shouldn't assume he'd be allowed so much candor. Still, Charles seemed to appreciate it, even when he had nothing good to say. "I do not think practice skirmishes should be counted in that total, princeling."

"Nor do I." Charles grinned back at him, but his face turned serious a moment later. "You underestimate me just because you think I look like a pleasure slave. I have spent a quarter of my life fighting for freedom from a Rome that betrays her promises to her client kings and consumes more and more land for little more than sport and glory."

For a moment, Erik thought he might have said too much, but Charles' good humor returned only a few seconds later and he finished the rest of his apple, tossing the core off of the side of the road. Erik knew the history there - knew that his own father hadn't honored the will written by Charles' father. Rather than leaving the Iceni territory to Rome - as was tradition - Charles' father had left half of it to Charles with Emma as his regent; Nero and his father had taken it poorly. Meeting Charles, even Raven and Emma, had given him a slightly new perspective, and he could no longer feel a certain pleasure in knowing that Emma had been beaten and her children violated for their arrogance.

"Did you keep me to punish me for what my father ordered done to you and your family?" Maybe it was odd that he hadn't even thought of that before, but he had always thought his father had the right of it... that Celts couldn't administer anything, and yet...

"No," Charles answered, almost immediately. "If that had been my intention I would have given you to my sister."

Erik remembered the hard slap he'd received just for a snort, he could only imagine what the girl might have done if she was given free rein to visit revenge for his father's actions onto him.

"Your father has already paid for what he did," Charles answered, voice still hard. "Vengeance must end there or it will never end."

Erik knew if he found the man personally responsible for his father's death he would not be so forgiving. "Then why marry Moira and ally with the Brigantes to kill her mother?"

"The fire that first drove our vengeance five years ago has long since burned out. If you asked your father, or Petronius or Trebellius why they conducted battles to bring pieces of Briton under control, you would not assume it was vengeance."

"Pure conquest," Erik had to admit he didn't think the princeling had it in him. "Bringing physical and agricultural resources under one administrative control."

"That is already the case of the south east; the tribes there were gutted of leadership, roads laid down, latin taught, Romans brought in to build little Roman towns, and then the administrators proved themselves unwilling to even follow their own laws concerning our properly..."

Charles trailed off, but Erik could finish the prince's thoughts in his own head. The little piece of the Empire in Briton, realistically months away from Rome, was barely worth it economically. Clay and gold and silver and venison couldn't be worth the deaths that Charles forced to keep the cold island under Roman control.

"You are..." Erik struggled for a word.

"Barbarous? We yell and scream in battle? Paint ourselves blue and run into battle naked? Pass out every night from drink? Fuck sheep?" Each of those charges Erik had heard at least once in his time in Briton or Gaul or Rome itself. They did scream, and some painted themselves, certainly, but on the other charges it was impossible to say that Charles - or any of other Britons he had seen - fit that description. "I have read Caesar's Commentarii de Bello Gallico."

"Not all Celts are like you." That was true enough, it had to be. Celts were stuck in petty feuds, blood for blood and then blood again just for the sake of it.

"That is because my father loved Rome, and respected and admired the progress they brought to our tribe and the island." That seemed to be the end of Charles' thoughts on the matter, and they left Erik equally silent as he walked along next to Charles, continuing up the Ermine Street.

Charles' latin was flawless, as always. Erik hadn't given much thought to it before but he must have had a tutor, or several, who had taught him to speak like he did, to write like he did, and to think like he did. He wondered, idly, if Charles youth might not have been a great deal like his own, just with hundreds of miles of distance between those childhood homes. Briton had some of the finest goods Rome could offer from trade, and some brilliant tutors might enjoy the cold and dank weather for a change.

He had said it earlier, Charles wanted to combine something distinctly Roman and distinctly Celtic across the island. Erik tried to imagine having this conversation with his own father - were they not father and son - or with the Emperor himself, and found it was impossible. The Celtic discipline hierarchy was... odd, but it meant he could share interesting conversations with the prince.

About an hour before they would likely stop for lunch, one of the scouts, riding farther off in the wings, came back into view of their lead. Charles tensed, back straightened, and Erik could see even from the ground. With a few words, Charles sent a runner heading down the line before the scout reached them. The scout arrived a few minutes later, panting, and Charles handed over one of his water bottles while the man collected his breath, a few words made Charles relax - nothing too dangerous, then.

The situation from the scout seemed to leave Charles tense, barely noticeable except in the way he sat up slightly in the saddle. His voice was calm and even, probably picking for more details. Not for the first time, Erik wished he could understand what Charles was saying, but he ignored the urge, continuing to walk alongside him.

"Erik. Please tell my mother we expect some diplomacy with the Catuvellauni tribe over lunch. I require her presence and your service at her direction."

Erik paused for a moment. "Is diplomacy a euphemism?"

Charles laughed, looking down at him with something that Erik could only call fondness. "No, although I suppose I made it sound like one. Find Alex and Scott, as well, tell them..." He considered his words more carefully and then said something brief in gaelic. "My prince dines with your father."

He mumbled it a few times before he headed off to the side of the road and picked his way down the line, searching for the bitch-queen's bright horse or the bright bronze helms that might indicate the brothers. Charles was... exceptionally wise now that he realized the two generals were not part of his own tribe. Charles said he had fought with them in dozens of battles, and although he suspected the prince was exaggerating some it meant that the three of them were bound by the next closest thing to familial blood.

Alex and Scott's father must have been Christopher - the man who had stepped up to take the place of Caratacus after his defeat fifteen years ago. The boys would grow used to accepting Charles' authority on the field, and before battle, and that would naturally mean they would bind themselves to him after the battles had been fought. He relayed the message to the brothers, and they... hopefully thanked him, he wasn't certain, and then set off to find Queen Emma.

* * *

Diplomacy did appear to be a euphemism, but not for anything dangerous, just a dozen Celts getting drunk together on mead while they picked apart bits of venison, lounging together on the side of the road. Emma had instructed Erik to keep Charles' cup less full, and filled less frequently than the other members of the Catuvellauni tribe, and he'd done so, watching with something akin to horror as Charles got more and more drunk despite his best efforts.

He was rather shocked, then, when the pause for lunch ended little more than an hour after it had began, with Charles pulling himself up onto his horse and sobering the moment Christopher was out of view, thundering off into the distance.

"I thought you were going to need to be tied to your saddle, my prince," he admitted, joking. Somehow that was easy when they were alone in the middle of the swirl of men.

Charles' speech was still slightly slurred, his eyes slightly heavy, but it was nothing compared to the way Alex and Scott had to lean against each other to even make it back to their horses. "That would never do, I have an image to uphold, after all."

"Did all that drunkenness serve some sort of purpose?"

"Yes, I should say so, Christopher and another thousand of his men will be joining us in a few days before we reach Coritavi territory. Which is good..." Charles sighed, patting his horse's neck and rubbing lightly. "The Coritavi have retained their neutrality in this little mess, since before Caratacus' rebellion, and since. They roll whichever way they sense the wind blowing."

"And you want them to feel the gods currently favor you, as opposed to the Romans among the Brigantes."

"Of course. A few more men, loyal and experienced, at my back cannot hurt."

"Christopher's tribe is the closest to your family's territory that you have not taken under your control directly..." Charles nodded. "Is that why Alex and Scott are among your generals?"

"And they are capable, both of them were with me during Emma's rebellion, and we learned arms together. Young enough to see the wisdom of something new, old enough to be ready for their authority." Charles confirmed everything he'd been thinking earlier; Charles was thoughtful, and having the Catuvellauni princes among his generals was a tactical and strategic move, not just friendship with boys his own age. Erik was finding that he continually underestimated the prince, and he wondered how many other impressions of the young man might have been mistaken by his own first impressions.

"Like you, my prince?" He teased, again, after his thoughts settled.

Charles grinned. "I should hope so."

The rest of the ride passed in tedium that Erik was glad to avoid by focusing on the road ahead and behind, ignoring the way he'd already come to enjoy trading occasionally pointed jabs with the prince and enjoyed the way he laughed or smiled when Erik's teasing was particularly apt.

When they made camp late in the afternoon, Erik hurried through his own chores and then went in search of Charles rather than wait for him. He didn't examine his own motivations too closely, and he told himself it was only to check and see the competition that the Romans would have from the Celtic boy-king. The camp itself was filled with men who were practicing the sort of one-on-one hostilities that couldn't win an engagement on an open field; they were decent siege tactics, for when men got up over the wall, dividing the garrison apart and picking at them while they attempted to form lines. There would be need for that when they arrived in the north. Erik didn't imagine the Brigantes would want to form lines for Charles to drive his men against - the Romans might, but Cartimandua would stay off the field. Her death would solidify Charles authority with the Brigantes, and Rome would want to avoid that at all costs.

Erik wondered if Charles had considered that and if his first goal would be to secure the death or capture of his wife's mother and end the Brigantes civil war. He doubted the prince had that level of ruthlessness in him, but he was beginning to doubt all his assumptions concerning Charles.

He found Charles, in 'command' of approximately a century's worth of men across the field from Alex and Scott, each holding their own century's worth of men, formed up in a standard Roman line. Erik might have formed up in a more protective configuration, but with Charles' men not using slings or javelins it didn't matter. A stray bolt was more likely to cause damage than the hard mock swords the two armies employed. Erik thought it immature, not using proper swords, until he realized that Charles had every intention of running the mock enemy down, true swords would have courted an unfortunate accident.

Alex and Scott's lines transitioned seamlessly to repel the calvary charge, spears out - anti-Celtic maneuvering, Charles paused his charge and yelled something that brought infantry up from behind him, charging between the spears and running down the front lines. Both sides were taking casualties, and Alex and Scott held their centuries tight and responded to Charles' shifting tactics the way Erik might have, but even though Charles only had a handful of horsemen in his ranks they moved effortlessly to provide a near-constant flanking of whatever the brothers did.

Erik was unsure if the tactics would scale to a larger battle, certainly one where Alex and Scott couldn't have the same precise control over a dozen centuries would have gone even more disastrously for the brothers. They also had the luxury of familiarity with Charles' moves and they hadn't moved fast enough.

The battle ended with most of the mock-Roman force down and Charles' forces down less than a quarter. Erik wasn't certain what he might have done differently in one of the brothers' place.

"Erik, come to watch?" Charles was... excited, cheeks flushed, panting from exertion, and it reminded him of the way Charles looked when he... "What are your thoughts?"

Sex. He blinked, shook his head. "The brothers do not use their pila properly."

"No, not for live practice, but our forces did not use slings either."

"Slings and pila do not offer the same contribution to Celt or Roman tactics," Erik shot back, and Charles grinned. Erik realized that, without even trying, Charles had drawn him into a tactical discussion.

"So would you loose both at the start, do you think? Then what would be the best response to the handful of calvary...?"

Erik shut his mouth and glowered. Charles shrugged. A few men with more severe bangs and cuts were helped up by their compatriots while Alex, Scott, and two of the 'legionaries' who had served under the brothers formed up around Charles and they began to debate what might have been the tactics of the match. All five of the boys were smiling brilliantly and a fervent discussion that revolved around some aspect of pila use continued all the way back to camp. The two other boys were the centurions in training, then, Alex and Scott just providing the most experienced hand next to them, teaching by example.

They shed Alex and one of the other boys, followed by Scott and the second before they returned to Charles' tent and the prince slipped inside, the weight of being battle leader and prince seemed to fall away immediately and Charles started to strip out of his armor immediately. Erik found himself helping, hands barely even tempted by the sword and dagger at Charles waist that ended up carefully strung in the back of the tent.

"I'll need my wound washed and dressed before I must entertain my other generals." Charles indicated the chest from last night, the one he'd used to treat Erik's wound, and then sat down on a stool and shucked his tunic.

Erik unwrapped the bandage against Charles' shoulder. "I do not know if your tactics would scale up to greater force numbers."

Charles turned, curious about something, but then he turned back to face forward. The wound was deeper than he would have expected, obviously from a hit with a sword in the back, and it would scar despite the neat stitching. Erik carefully cleaned the wound, fingers touching along the edges as Charles leaned forward.

"They will," Charles answered a moment later. "Or I should say that they have in both skirmishes and a few pitched battles."

"Even with the use of javelins?" He _was_ curious. Romans uses the pila to break a shield wall, or just force an enemy soldier to fight without shield, or break the line. He had never seen an opposition force recover from a well placed volley of legionary javelins.

"Mmm. There are rumors that a part of the Ninth will attempt to engage with us in the Coritavi region, they have a garrison just north of there." Erik listened while he cleaned around the wound, surprised that Charles would tell him that even if he had no way to get that information to a Roman force. "If that is the case, you are more than welcome to assess the tactics."

"Your mother's revolt was won by strength of numbers, but you are perhaps evenly matched on strength with a full legion."

"I know." Charles hissed when Erik's fingers grazed too close to the wound, arching slightly. "It will be the first test of our full, trained strength since Watling Street."

"A great deal can change in five years."

Charles nodded, and Erik could see it was troubling the boy-prince. Erik felt more torn than he would have expected. His first and only loyalty should have been to the Ninth - one of the longest serving legions in Briton - and he should have had no thought but to how they should crush Charles' force and end the threat of native revolt. And he still felt that, he just hoped desperately that perhaps Charles - and maybe his generals - might be spared during the slaughter. Maybe he could live out his life in Rome the way Caratacus had after his failed rebellion. If anyone could give a stirring speech that would move an Emperor, it would be Charles.

The thoughts were ridiculous folly, though. Charles' force would be crushed if they clashed with the Ninth, and Erik did not think he could prevail upon the commander to spare Charles' life long enough for him to beg for mercy at the feet of the Emperor.

That truth shouldn't have twisted in his stomach and rested like a heavy, lead ball.

"How long?"

"Four days."

"Do you want to meet with them?"

"They represent over half of the Roman force that Cartimandua has at her disposal for the Brigantes defensive. She would not be able to field that impressive a force against me again. My men have been fighting other Celts for generations, we have only been fighting Romans for little longer than my lifetime. Without her Roman backers she will fall easily."

Assuming they could be taken. Erik ran his fingers down Charles' back, slowly touching and massaging the skin there.

"Do I detect a hint of concern, Erik?"

"No," he answered, immediately.

Charles hung his head, sighed. Had Charles though he actually meant it? The prince had to know there was no way that Erik could say that out loud, even if he did care, even thought he was concerned. It was betrayal enough that his own mind couldn't decide if he wanted the prince's success or failure on the field. He tugged on Charles' waist, pulling the boy back against him, pulling him into his lap and wrapping his arms tight around the princeling. Charles didn't resist, just ran his hands down the sides of Erik's legs, touching where he could, and Erik pressed his nose and lips against Charles' back. He smelled like sweat and horse and iron, tasted like salt and leather.

Charles gasped when Erik pressed his tongue near his spine, just savoring that taste. "No..."

Erik blinked, shocked, then pulled his mouth away. Whatever spell Charles had weaved on him was broken and Erik's thoughts were clear again, free of the conflicting thoughts in his head. Charles scooted away and moved back to the stool in front of Erik.

"Finish with the bandage, I need dinner, mead for my men." Charles was... angry, upset with him, something.

Erik did as he was told.

Charles said nothing to him while he ate the dinner that Erik brought him, said nothing while he scrubbed himself clean and changed back into his armor to greet his elder generals, all but ignored him while he circled around, keeping the men's glasses filled - but Charles' less so - throughout their meeting. Charles was bright, shining, happy, he was their boy-prince-general, but that was the first time that Erik realized that it wasn't the truth, that Charles wasn't happy and bright and shining in that moment.

Erik saw it in the way that Charles almost collapsed when the last general left him in peace, the energy that had been holding him up was gone, and he shoved Erik's hands away when he tried to help with Charles' armor. Nervous now, he went into the back of the tent, almost hoping Charles would stop him or send him away for the night, but he didn't. He stripped, set his clothing aside neatly and slipped under the furs he'd laid out to make Charles' bed, not quite certain what to expect from the man who would join him in bed.

Charles must have stayed up some time, because Erik had already half fallen asleep when the prince slipped into bed behind him, breath stinking of far more mead than Erik had served him. He was hard, his erection pressing against Erik's ass and making him tense. He steeled himself, readied himself to be pushed over or into, fucked and grabbed and pinned down, but instead Charles wrapped an arm around him and pulled him close, nose pressing into his nape.

He didn't even move to rub himself between Erik's thighs like he had that morning, just ... stayed there behind him, tense and curled around Erik's larger frame.

"I care." He didn't know if that was why Charles was upset but... he _did_ care. He didn't know what he really wanted, what he would want if Charles clashed with the Ninth, but he did care.

"You do not."

It had already cost him a great deal to even say that, so he couldn't say any more than that. He spread his legs, reached behind to take Charles' hip and pull him forward. Charles sighed into Erik's back, hands rubbing down his sides but still not moving.

"You want me dead." Charles sounded resigned, and he let his fingers curl gently into Erik's body. "Just a few days ago you tried to kill me. If you do want me alive it's only so you can lay with me without offending your precious Roman honor. I don't..." Charles pushed him away, and Erik went even though he felt cold and bereft from the loss of the warmth at his back. "Tomorrow you will go to my mother and do as she says. I cannot get what I need from you."

Something cold grabbed Erik's chest and squeezed, not because he feared Emma, or even Raven, but because... he didn't even know. He should be glad to have Charles out of sight so he wouldn't have to see those perfect eyes and lips, wouldn't be tempted by the quirk of his lips.

He should have felt powerful, realizing how much a few words had hurt Charles, but he felt nothing of the sort. He couldn't do anything to take back what he had done without giving up being a Roman, without accepting a life as Charles' slave and give himself over completely to what Charles saw for the world.

"Of course, my prince."

* * *

Erik woke before dawn, still cold and still conflicted. Charles was still asleep, not peaceful at all, face tense either feigning sleep or truly that frustrated. He moved about the room for a few moments, packing everything but the prince's bed, setting out a change of clothes, bundling his own meager change of clothes into a pile, hugged tight to his chest before he kissed Charles' naked shoulder and headed out into the slowly waking camp.

Emma was a sight to see in the morning, perfect hair out of place, eyes tired, and then she was looking at Erik as though he was a bug and he could see it in her face that she somehow knew what had passed between him and Charles even though he knew Charles hadn't left the night before.

His pre-dawn was spent brushing out Emma's hair and then taking instruction from Hank in how to plait it properly. He brought Emma her breakfast and scrounged a piece of bread and a half an apple with Hank's help. With Hank he broke down the physician's tent and stowed it in their carts, and then the Celt stuck to his side as they walked, carefully teaching him more gaelic than he had learned in his two years on the island before that day.

For the first time since Charles had stabbed him, he was miserable.

With dawn broken and his blood finally moving through his body again as they walked up Ermine Street he realized that he had hurt Charles' feelings, badly. But it was hardly fair that he blamed Erik for that, at least as far as Erik was concerned. Erik was the slave, to be used however Charles saw fit, and yet Charles seemed to have expected... affection.

He'd been so smug when he'd pressed up against Erik, saying that Erik could beg Charles to be fucked, but he realized that hadn't been bravado - or if it had been it was laced with a layer of longing he hadn't realized Charles possessed.

"You are thinking too loudly, slave," Emma finally bit at him while they were hours between breaking camp and stopping for lunch.

"I'm sorry."

"You should be," Raven growled from his other side, Hank doing his best to placate her but mostly failing.

He wondered, again, how it was that both the queen and princess seemed to know he had hurt Charles. Maybe that was the only reason Charles would have sent him to them.

The ever-present Emma and Raven meant he couldn't even express to Hank how ridiculous it was for everyone to blame _him_ for the fact that the prince wanted to fuck him and wanted him to like it. He already _did_ like it! Erik wasn't certain they had noticed but Charles was perfection, all soft lines but hard underneath, beautiful face, pale skin, and a voice that made moans twice as obscene. Charles already _had_ Erik willingly in his bed, what more had he wanted.

Learning the words for horse and water and wagon and sword and queen and princess was a meager substitute for philosophical debates on armies and kingships.

He shouldn't care anyway, the princeling's revolt would be crushed in a few days, Erik would be dead or freed, Charles would be dead or enslaved, and Erik was entirely certain he would be miserable.

Fucking princeling and his arrogance.

At lunch he filled water skins, checked the queen and princess' horses' hooves for stones, and then got a strip of smoked fish and a hunk of bread and a few swallows of mead.

"You and the prince ... quarreled?" Hank finally asked them when the two of them sat at the edge of the road eating their lunch.

Erik frowned, he had no idea how everyone in the entire camp seemed to know what had gone on between him and Charles in the privacy of his tent.

"Yes." He bit the fish strip and gnawed at it with his teeth, it was tough, and tasted more of smoke and salt than anything else.

The other man looked like he wanted to ask more, but didn't quite have the words to ask it.

"Charles is a good man."

"You call him Charles?" Emma and Raven did, certainly, but he hadn't even heard Alex or Scott call Charles by his name, just 'prince'.

"I am his physician, I suppose I have a certain familiarity with him, yes."

"You're the one who sewed me up the night of my attack." Hank nodded. "You are very talented." Erik stretched out his feet and wiggled his toes while he thought. "Are you Roman?"

"Greek."

"How did a Greek man end up a slave to the Celtic King of Briton?" And why did he serve so cheerfully and willingly serve as little more than a body servant to the queen and princess?

"The same as any other, I was taken from my home at fourteen, served the legion that captured me, was brought to Briton seven years ago, and then five years ago was captured again during Emma's rebellion." He shrugged, and then offered Erik a slice of hard cheese that he had gotten - more food than Erik apparently now rated - and Erik took it gratefully.

"So you served with my father?"

"Your father? I'm sorry, the queen and princess call you... 'Erik' or other titles less flattering."

"Gaius Seutonius Paulinus, my father."

Hank's mouth formed a silent little 'O' and then he rifled his fingers through his hair, scrubbing for a moment before he ran his fingers along the knees of his pants. "Yes, I was with your father on Watling Street."

That was the end of their conversation, Hank did not bring it up within hearing range of Raven or Emma - which seemed natural - and they instead continued his education in the various words and phrases of the Celts. Erik was slowly starting to realize that Hank was brilliant. He spoke greek, latin, the language of the southern Briton Celts, and he was one of the most talented physicians that Erik had never known. Charles was intensely lucky to have him.

He and Hank set up the tents for the princess and queen, and then he followed Hank around playing nurse to his doctor while Hank treated the various cuts and scrapes and illnesses of the road. There was nothing major, but he imagined that Charles and the soldiers he sparred with that afternoon would have at least a few scrapes and bruises between them, so the two of them ended up taking their dinner outside of the core of camp, far enough away so that Charles wouldn't see him, but close enough to watch the battle.

"Do you know how my father was taken?" Erik asked when they were alone again.

Hank looked away, nervous, watching the battle unfold. "Charles didn't tell you?"

"Charles? He was... twelve or thirteen, wasn't he?"

"He had just turned fourteen, Celts learn to fight young. Charles was... a studious boy, at least that's what Raven has told me. He always was studying figures and history, military tactics, grammar, everything he could get his hands on. He had _five_ Roman tutors."

Erik took in the knowledge. He always - still - saw Charles as a boy. "I suppose I had assumed he hadn't taken part in the Battle of Watling Street."

"Oh..." Hank tugged his pants lightly, playing with the fabric. "If not for the prince's study of Roman strategy and tactics the battle would have likely gone in your father's favor."

Erik watched the battle out in the field, watched Charles seamlessly maneuver men around, showing them how to shatter Roman formations. "How was it done?" His back was tense, and he tried to make sense of what Hank had slowly - and perhaps accidentally - revealed to him. Erik had assumed that Charles took no part in the battle that had defeated his father, he was too young, and would have had little experience on the field.

"Charles was always meant to be a leader. His father saw that he had training from the best Celtic and Roman arms men, tutors, and scholars. He has studied all of the military histories, Caesar's victories against the Gaulish Celts, the conquests of the Briton Celts from before his birth, and he had studied the way an untrained and under armored force could be shattered by the strength of a legion."

Erik nodded, picking at his food and taking in what Hank was saying. He realized - dully - that he didn't know Charles at all. He knew the friendly man who made his heart pound and his body tense, but it hadn't sunk in that Charles was a prince for reasons beyond his birth.

"After..." Hank looked down, nervous, and then curled his arms around his knees looking like a child rather than a full grown man. "After Governor Seutonius ordered the... queen flogged and her children..." Hank shook his head, not quite able to say it out loud.

Erik couldn't blame him, the consequences of war were something that happened to other people, people that he didn't know, and yet knowing Charles had been that betrayed by the Romans he respected made it even more incredible he could smile at all, could talk mercy or forgiveness at all.

"Charles began training immediately, he took boys and girls just a few years older than him from all the tribes Emma brought under her own banner. They drilled daily for the year it took them to destroy Camulodunum, Londinium, and Verulamium while your father - Seutonius - struggled to disengage with the Celts in the west and bring a force together to face Emma's battle lines. He picked perfect ground a defile with forest to the back, making flanking... it should have been impossible."

"But...?" Erik had heard that much, the terrain that his father had picked had been perfect, forming up in the defile meant that the Celt's superior numbers should have been useless.

"Charles had anticipated the maneuver, had said there was nowhere else in a hundred miles that a man of your father's skill would choose to form up a numerically inferior force. The defile works in both directions, though. Seutonius thought to use the choke point to make 10,000 men stand against 150,000, and instead Charles took seven hundred and hit the back of their lines from the forest after they had engaged with Emma in the front. Most of the senior legates died in the first ten minutes of the strike."

"The choke point became a death trap," Erik realized in dawning horror. A forest at his back meant a serious force couldn't have been fielded from the rear, and a few hundred Celts _shouldn't_ have been a serious force, a few centuries, formed up properly, could have handled the scattered attacks of a few amateurs. "My father underestimated Charles and Emma."

Hank nodded. "He... meant to break Emma by flogging her and what he had done to her children, but all it did was light a fire in the belly of every Celt who had ever bent the knee to Rome. It burned into their hearts that Rome would never honor her commitments to them, and at the first sign of advantage the Celts would be treated as barbarians to be crushed and exterminated."

For a moment, Erik was a Celt and hated his father, and then he felt sick, fingers digging into his knees. "My father was an honorable man." He'd done as Rome commanded, bringing Briton under Imperial authority. Charles had killed him.

The physician didn't say anything, just watched the field where Charles moved astride his horse, shouting commands and moving men around the field. He was brilliant. Erik hadn't allowed himself to appreciate that, he'd defeated a general with twice as many years of battle experience than Charles had been alive; part of the success had been taking advantage of his father's arrogance, and the truth that Erik had started to see after only a few days among Charles' Celts. The Celts were people, just the same as Romans; they drank too much, talked too freely about sex, and screamed too loud in battle, but they were people.

"Celts can't be citizens of Rome," he said, like that explained everything even though it explained nothing.

"Neither can greek physicians."

No, Hank would not have been a citizen, he would have been in Rome, serving his father, as a useful slave, but a slave nonetheless. "You are not Celtic, though, not a citizen."

"Tribes are by blood." Neither he nor Hank would ever be considered 'citizen' in Briton. "If you had asked Charles seven years ago if he could pick one, Iceni or Roman, he would not have hesitated."

"Roman."

"Yes. He wanted desperately to belong, to have scrolls and histories and knowledge and math and writing and literature. He wanted a little villa on the Mediterranean Sea, even though he's never been south of the channel, and hates olives and fish. Sometimes I think he still would like that, even as he fights to unify Briton."

Erik didn't understand why Hank was telling him this, or what he hoped to accomplish. Charles was a Celt, he would never be a Roman. If he'd been a Roman, Erik's feelings that were slowly growing for the prince would have been even more unacceptable. Free men did not lay with each other with one playing the woman, they were not Greeks.

"Charles understands that some people might choose their city or their tribe for a reason other than blood." Hank smiled, tilted his head out towards the battlefield where he saw Scott and Jean working together in tandem against Charles today. "Jean is Brigantes, Scott is Catuvellauni, and together they will administer the north for Charles and his queen when they head back to Londinium."

The red head and the brunet worked well together, they forced more losses on Charles' attacking army than Scott and Alex had the day before.

"So you have chosen to be a Celt?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"When I first met Charles, he was a boy, his hair falling into his eyes, his hands stained with Roman blood and his chest stained with his own, he looked at me and he said 'I am Charles, and I will be King of the Britons, would you do the honor of serving me?' and then he passed out." Hank smiled, it was obviously a fond memory of his despite the fact it must have come in the wake of the Battle of Watling Street. "And all of his men crowded around, afraid for his life, even though the way that Celts often become king is by slaughtering the old king. He was barely fourteen and he had changed the hearts of seven hundred men already. How could I not?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Notes:
> 
> Petronius and Trebellius - Roman Governors of Briton who succeeded Gaius Suetonius Paulinus in real history, they have similarly succeeded him in alt history, both had a relatively conciliatory policy towards Briton, but in this reality Rome has stayed aggressive due to Charles' continued rebellion.
> 
> Commentarii de Bello Gallico - Caesar's commentaries on his conquests on Gaul (France), this is generally considered to be where historians came up with the idea that Celts painted themselves in woad (an indigo-type plant for dye), but this is considered to possibly be ahistorical and more to play up the barbarian nature of the celts.
> 
> Catuvellauni - The territory to the north of the Iceni tribe. Caractacus lead a resistance against the Romans and was betrayed to Cartimandua. He gave a stirring speech in Rome and lived out the rest of his life within the Empire. This territory now is controlled by Christopher Summers and his boys Alex and Scott.
> 
> Coritavi - Territory north of the Catuvellauni, there's not much historical regarding their role in Boudicca's rebellion.
> 
> Pila - javelins. Legionaries typically carried two, they served as a throwing weapon, good at disabling enemy shields, and as an anti-calvary weapon.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Home stretch. I'm knee deep in NaNoWriMo now, but will try to have the last bit edited before the week is out.
> 
> Historical notes at the end.

After Charles' mock battle finished, Hank retreated back to his tent with Erik to tend to the injured men. He fetched water when commanded, boiled water when told, scrubbed linen cloths clean and carried disgusting smelling concoctions when instructed, and then finally, well passed sundown, he curled up on Hank's uncomfortable floor covered with a thin wool blanket and slept badly.

Erik should have been furious with Charles. Charles had killed his father, perhaps he had not been the one who slid the sword into his father's back or slit his throat, but he had killed his father. The mission he'd been given weeks ago, had failed to finish days ago, was supposed to end the threat of a unified Briton under Charles' banner. Erik had always hoped he could slit Charles' bitch-mother's throat as well and avenge his father's death.

Instead, his vengeance was supposed to be meted out to the prince, little more than a boy, with soft brown hair and a warm smile. His father had meant to shatter Charles, and it had only unified the Celts against him and left him bleeding to death on the battlefield.

The day they had met, Charles had said that his father was a brilliant tactician, now he had to wonder if Charles didn't mean that at least a bit ironically, his decision not to honor the Iceni king's will had paid nasty dividends for the last five years.

Erik considered his options. He should kill Charles. That would solve all of his problems neatly, end the rebellion, avenge his father, restore his honor, put him back in with Rome - probably have him in the good graces of the Ninth and her general. Even thinking it made him feel ill. He could have killed the princeling Rex Brittania a few days ago, today he would have had to kill _Charles_. It should have have been hard to come to that decision. Trying to make that decision, trying to think of how he might be able to get a dagger again, slide into the prince's tent because no one would think better of it...

He had no idea how things had suddenly become so complicated. It was made worse by the fact that Charles seemed to have some genuine feelings for him.

Despite his plan, he did not move to implement it, he couldn't, and instead of sneaking out in an attempt to finish his mission he slept poorly and woke up feeling sick.

He and Hank broke camp and his day seemed to be a near-repeat of the day before. Hank taught him more gaelic in the morning, Hank abandoned him for lunch to spend time with Raven, the two of them sitting on the side of the road with Hank settled just behind her running his fingers through her hair. The image left him... irritated. He ate his lunch, staring off into the distance and thinking that Charles must be somewhere up the line, if he looked up the road he could almost imagine he could see Charles' armor and fluffy brown hair.

That evening, Charles did not fight in the mock battle, just watched from the distance, circling on his horse while the armies clashed and countered.

"Do you think he will defeat the legion if they meet Charles in battle?"

"I have no doubt," Hank answered, instantly. "If Charles picks the terrain, and knows the enemy, I am not certain the Romans can defeat him."

"He's not infallible."

"No, but he is brilliant, and the generals of Rome constantly underestimate him. The reason Roman forces tear through the Celts is because they can move instantly and predictably to counter certain terrains and movements. Charles has worked on ... counter-counters. Someday they will learn out to move against those movements, but until then... Charles will win." Hank sounded deathly certain. "Are you concerned for him?"

"Charles asked me that."

"What did you say?"

"...No."

Hank sucked in a breath between teeth, hissing, and then he turned away from Erik, just looking out over the field at the troops as they moved and countered.

"He shouldn't care what I think. I'm just his slave, not even his slave anymore. I'm his mother's slave." Erik gripped his knees and also looked out at the field, trying to assure himself that there were no weaknesses in Charles' lines.

"Raven cares what I think," Hank said it like they were equivalent at all.

"Yes but she..." He looked down. "She obviously cares for you. Are you... lovers?"

Hank smiled and blushed. "Sometimes, when it pleases her. She does not like me to spend the night; waking with arms around her frightens her, but... yes. Do you think Charles doesn't care for you?"

"I'm his slave. Why would he care? We're just chattel." Chattel to be rutted against when the urge struck and sent away when the urge was satisfied.

"I am not a slave," Hank answered. "I am the royal family's physician, physician of their army."

"But you were a Roman slave."

"And now I am a Celtic freeman, I have been for almost three years." Hank shook his head. "You obviously do not understand. Charles... values integration, certainly a normal slave with no skills would become a simple servant maybe a tradesman if he knows one, but he's still free. Most Celtic slaves are from other tribes and from conquest, but Charles believes in the unification of tribes and thus... a slave from conquest is actually a citizen of Briton."

"Charles is an idealistic fool." He'd never been so certain of that as right in that minute.

Hank nodded, leaning up against his knee. "Yes, he is. Did you know he has Romans in his army? Not many, maybe two hundred, and over one hundred of them are in the south with Charles' other generals poised against advances from Cogidubnus. He trusts them with his life."

Erik couldn't imagine that - couldn't imagine taking up a sword and using it on a fellow Roman. All that meant was that Charles' army had two hundred traitors.

That night, Charles visited with a small scratch to his knuckles and to get his bandage changed by Hank. At first, Erik hovered around, close, nervous, but he slowly became more and more aware of Charles, topless, as Hank checked his wound for infection and discussed something with him low in gaelic. Erik found himself staring. For the first time he noticed the very thin white scars that marked Charles' body, more noticeable in the brightness of Hank's tent than the low light he usually saw Charles in. He had a thin scar down his right side, one - dangerous - along his other shoulder; that cut could have been an inch higher and ended in death.

"Please leave," Charles told him, and Erik realized his gaze had gotten hot.

He wanted to protest, but he had no words that could have excused him. He wanted to look at Charles and see him, wanted to imagine his hands playing down the man's chest and making him moan.

Hank said something, did protest, and he and Charles argued, fiercely.

"Stay," Charles corrected himself.

He helped Hank, then, moved around with some water and the stinky balm that was used to treat the wound. It was almost healed, and Erik realized that would mean Charles would be in good form when it came time to clash with the Ninth, and once again he was left feeling conflicted.

"I need to get some more cloth," Hank excused himself. When he didn't head towards the back of the tent, but instead outside, Erik realized that Hank was lying, and had excused himself just to be out of the tent. That left him with Charles, the prince looking anywhere but towards him.

"You..." Erik fumbled with his words. "You pushed the line hard today."

Charles continued not to look at him. "We must make the Nene River before the Ninth does."

Erik didn't know the terrain, but he assumed if Charles thought it was important for the confrontation to be there, on Charles' terms, then Erik trusted it was. He wanted to say something, wanted to make it clear that he didn't wish Charles' death or failure, but to say he didn't want Charles' failure meant he did want the failure of the Ninth, but he couldn't accept that. "I missed you today."

"Erik, don't." Charles looked... old, weary and tired and run down. "I was an idiot to court distraction by taking you into my tent, a mistake I do not intend to continue when I need my mind on the battles to come."

Somehow Charles' words were a punch in the gut and a twist in his chest that left him winded and confused. Charles found him distracting.

"If I did not know better, I would say you were sent from Rome just to torment me."

A torment and a distraction. The idea was terrifying. Erik thought the distraction and the conflicted feelings were only on his own part. Charles had only known him for a few days, but Erik obviously was affecting Charles. He felt as though Charles was a half-step away from composing poems in his honor and that was unacceptable. "I don't want to distract you."

Charles shut his eyes, buried his face in his hands for a moment. "It is far too late for that, Erik."

He could, he realized, have done more for the cause of the Ninth here than anywhere else... if Charles was really going to be that distracted by him then he could have turned the tide of battle. He couldn't. "Then I'll leave you. And you can..."

Charles reached out, took Erik by the hand and pulled him close. Erik barely resisted, and then Charles took the back of his neck and dragged him in for a kiss. It started harsh, more two mouths slammed together than an embrace, but then Charles slowed, lips relaxing and Erik mirrored him. Charles' lips were soft, and tasted just faintly of wine, Erik let his tongue slide along those lips and Charles moaned, a hand darting to Erik's hip to pull him close. They stayed like that long enough for Erik to completely lose track of time, mouths and tongues sliding together, Erik's heart speeding up steadily until it was like war drums in his ears.

When they finally broke apart, both of them were panting, Charles' eyes glazed over and Erik's head felt foggy.

The man sighed, hands running along his neck and he could tell Charles was embarrassed, or bashful. It seemed strange that that would be their first kiss, but Erik wanted nothing more than to kiss Charles again and again. He leaned forward, mouth hot against Charles' mouth, and he tangled his fingers through Charles' brown hair. Kissing anyone else had never felt like this, Charles was driving him mad, there was no other explanation.

"Erik," Charles broke away again, fingers trailing down the side of his face. "Hank had the best of intentions, I am certain, but..." He paused, seemed to reconsider what he'd been about to say. "Will you wear my torc? Just until I am married."

He was certain that meant a great deal more than just wearing the prince's necklace, but what, he had no idea. He nodded anyway. Charles pressed his hands up against the metal along the back, and Erik pressed his hands onto the side as well. He knew it was solid gold and even the warmth of their hands and Charles' neck was enough to leave it supple. Together they worked it off, sliding it off Charles' throat and then Charles pulled it onto Erik's neck, squeezing until it slid into place. The metal was heavy, an unfamiliar weight on Erik's throat, the two ends resting heavy against his skin.

"Would you like me to... come to your tent tonight?"

Charles just smiled, his eyes sad, and he ran his fingers along Erik's face, throat, and then across the metal there. "I would prefer we stick to an illusion that I can maintain, so no."

Erik didn't understand, but he could accept that, he supposed. "Let me get you bandaged up again."

He drew a few pads from the back of the tent, making it clear exactly how Hank's retreat had been staged for their benefit, and then Erik wrapped the shoulder carefully so that he could move around without dislodging the pad.

"Tomorrow--"

Charles shrugged into his tunic. "Tomorrow, please work with Hank again." The prince pressed their lips together one final time, fingers brushing down his throat.

Erik was being held, awkwardly and carefully at a distance, but he supposed Charles must know what he was doing. He didn't even understand his own feelings right now, so perhaps it was only natural that Charles was similarly confused. That made him feel just a touch better, but only a touch.

The prince had been gone for almost an hour before Erik remembered that a true Roman would have tried to kill Charles.

* * *

The next day, when he woke, it was impossible to hide the torc from Hank. He hadn't meant to try, but the low collar of his tunic meant it sat uncomfortably visible against his neck. The physician obviously had no idea what to make of it.

"Is there a reason you spent the night here instead of with Charles?" Hank's question was pointed and Erik's blush was furious.

Erik wasn't certain of that himself. "I think he does not want a distraction while he prepares to march against the Ninth."

Hank looked as though he wanted to say something, closed his mouth and then opened it again. "Would you mind helping me take down the tent again today?"

Yesterday it had been an order, a polite one, but still an order, and today it was a request. Erik was glad enough to, it was a distraction from Charles and his strange behavior, a distraction from Charles' mouth and his tongue and the way he smiled so sadly last night. It was a distraction from the upcoming battle that - no matter the outcome - was going to shatter Erik's world.

Breakfast was a quick affair, with an apple and some stale bread and venison jerky. Erik swapped some of his sheep cheese for Hank's portion of a harder cheese that he didn't care for.

If anything, the presence of Charles' torc around Erik's neck irritated Emma and Raven even more, but he and Hank were able to have a decent morning conversation that revolved around one of the many dozen tomes that Hank had read. By lunch they had started to discuss some of Caesar's battles against the Gauls and how they had forced the General's tactics only modestly. It was nice, at least, even if it continued to fill Erik with dread that Charles would not be able to handle the Ninth.

"You are worried about him, despite what you said," Hank finally noticed when the two of them spent their lunch walking to and from a nearby spring.

Erik didn't answer with words, but did smile. He still couldn't voice it, but yes, he was concerned. "I do not know what the exact strength of my father's forces was, but the Ninth will be more prepared, and the numerical advantage has disappeared."

"Charles has gotten better in the last four years."

He wished he could feel Hank's confidence. Or maybe he wished he didn't. Instead he ended up just fingering the braided metal of the torc. It was heavy, like wearing a cloak or just the heavier feel of armor against his shoulders. Erik had never thought of it much before, but there were a half-dozen golden braids twisted around each other, and two circles that clasped tight to his throat. It had bent easily, last night, just under pressure from Charles' hands and it was obviously rich gold.

"I feel like I'm some lady being courted," he growled at Hank, frustrated by it even as he tried to feel flattered.

"I... would have thought that meant the courting was largely concluded," Hank said, slightly flushed.

Oh. Right. He wasn't certain why he would have thought otherwise. At first, Erik thought it was something perverse, the way Charles wanted to make certain everyone in the camp to know that Erik shared his bed, or maybe he meant to shame him, but everyone acted as though it was the most natural thing in the world.

"You must know that this isn't the way it would be done in Rome." And really that was what kept bothering him, that it just _was_.

"I think we both know that never stopped some men in Rome."

Erik wished he could disagree, wished he could say that he'd never felt the urge to fall asleep in another man's arms, but here it was allowed. He pressed his fingers back to his throat. "What does it mean, the torc?"

"You don't know?"

Erik shook his head, feeling like an idiot. He didn't know the language, the customs, anything, really. "If this were on the throat of a Roman warrior it would be a sign of distinction in battle." A few of the warriors throughout the camp had torcs as well, but it was hardly enough of them to think it meant simple distinction in battle. Of Charles' younger generals only Scott and Sean wore them.

"I suppose the simplest way to say it would be to say that... if Charles was going to give it to someone it should have been to Moira when they are wed." The two of them finally started to head back to the train, Erik's head swimming. "It doesn't represent marriage or anything so simple; people with some form of royal authority wear them, sometimes it is just decorative, but everyone knows that is Charles'."

"Claiming me, then?" Royal property.

Hank looked away uncomfortable again. "Only in the way that none of us could be above Charles in authority. It represents... royal favor."

It was hard for Erik to take that to mean anything but some sort of royal concubine and the feeling wasn't flattering. Charles wanted him to wear it, maybe he shouldn't have accepted. He didn't understand what Charles _meant_. He didn't understand a thing about the prince.

"If you do not love him you should not have accepted it."

Erik's blood ran cold. No one had said anything about love. "I..." He ran his fingers over it again, feeling the very slight bend where it hadn't reformed perfectly around Erik's neck. "He only asked me to wear it until he was married."

"Oh..." Hank looked away again, embarrassed, and Erik wondered if he'd done something wrong to even say that.

"Do you know...?" But then they were back in the lines and there wasn't going to be any conversation on the typic of Charles and Erik and their... _whatever_ it was between them, not under Emma and Raven's noses.

By the end of the day, Hank had thought better of further conversation on the topic, and when Erik pressed him for more explanation while they watched Charles' drills - this time with several hundred men instead of the usual three hundred or so - was fruitless. Dinner was stew and bread and there were only a few scrapes and bruises from practice and Hank finally removed the stitching that held his wound together from days ago.

He needed to see Charles, he wanted answers, but only yesterday Charles had called him a distraction. Erik didn't know how to take that, what to do with that knowledge, but his walk through the sprawling tent city brought him to Charles' tent anyway, with a light fire roaring inside.

Before he could think better of it he slipped inside, and he supposed as he'd expected no one bothered to question or stop him when he did.

Charles was sprawled, wearing only his breeches, between two chairs, his fingers resting gently against a wine glass and his other hand ghosting lightly over his own chest. His eyes were closed, and Erik bit his lip finding the display tempting. In the firelight he was beyond beautiful, a perfect combination of hard and soft that he didn't know could affect him as much as it did.

His neck seemed naked without the ever present torc and Erik could see where the band had left an even paler strip of skin at his throat that Erik wanted to run his lips against.

The prince brought his glass to his lips, tilting it back far enough that Erik knew it must already be empty.

"Do you need more, my prince?"

Charles snapped up, startled, blue eyes wide before they settled and Erik watch them, lazy and warm. "I do not need more if my mind is already conjuring visions."

Erik swallowed hard, wondering if Charles really thought he was a vision or he was just being more poetic than Erik was used to. He took the glass anyway, pulled it from the prince's hands and slid it away on the table before bending down to claim Charles' lips. He tasted like too much wine, maybe he was drunk enough to think Erik a vision.

Whatever questions he had wanted to ask died on Erik's lips as Charles stood and pushed the two of them back towards his bed. Charles was slow, leisurely, as he unbuckled Erik's belt and stripped the tunic, fingers touching along his neck, feeling the warm metal there and then gently fingering nipples and ribs and belly. His fingers tugged down Erik's breeches, and then he stood there, naked, already erect, and Charles was staring at him like he was everything he could have ever wanted.

"Tell me what you want, Erik. Anything. I love you..."

He felt like a thief, he was stealing something Charles hadn't meant him to see or hear. A prince didn't beg his slave like this. "Just..." He wondered what he could ask for, what Charles would have granted him, but he just wrapped his arms around Charles. "Come to bed, you are going to feel like your head was trampled by horses tomorrow."

Charles sighed, but headed to the back of the tent. Erik got some water for Charles to drink and brought the cup back to him, and the two of them curled up under thick fur blankets. "I don't deserve you..." Charles purred, wrapped his arms around Erik and the two of them tangled together, naked legs and arms wrapped around each other.

"Yes you do, hush, go to bed."

Charles took Erik's shoulder for a pillow and then ran his fingers up and down Erik's arm, ghosting kisses against the plains of his chest that he could reach just by tilting his head. The slow, lazy affection warmed him more than the fire or the blankets, and he wrapped his arms around Charles so he could rub up and down the prince's back, enjoying the smooth skin there. The cut on his shoulder had finally scabbed and Erik even ran his fingers along that, feeling the way Charles' skin would leave a thin crease when he finally healed.

"My... warrior prince."

Charles only responded with a strangled gasp, not of pleasure, something more like a sob, and the easy affection fell away, the prince's head pressed against Erik's chest almost as though he was hiding. "Please... not tonight."

Erik pressed his fingers along Charles' back, touching the smooth line of his neck and his back and shoulders, stroking like a mother might more than a lover, calming him.

"I'm sorry, not tonight."

He didn't know what he wasn't doing, what Charles couldn't handle tonight, but the ragged breathing against his chest quieted slightly.

"I'm sorry, so sorry..."

"Shhhh..." He hushed Charles', pulled his head back down and touched him, ran his fingers through his hair, along the shell of his ear and his throat. "Nothing to forgive, nothing to forgive." For all the indignity, for all he found himself afraid of how Charles would treat him, for all he found himself embarrassed in the hot light of day, Charles had never done anything but made him feel warm and loved.

Erik's nonsense assurances finally calmed Charles down, his breathing became heavy and slow, and he weighed down on Erik like a sack of grain, warm and firm and muscled, but still sprawled bonelessly. He wasn't certain why he'd come to Charles' tent, maybe to offer himself up to Charles, maybe just to steal more of the kisses he'd had last night, but instead he'd seen something raw in Charles.

Even his prince apparently had his own demons that Erik didn't understand.

He woke up to a firm prod to his side, but rather than snap awake he wriggled away, batting away the hands. Fingers pressed into his chest the second time, and his eyes flew awake. Confused bright blue eyes hovered over him, Charles hands touching against him as though he might break.

"Charles?" The prince's name on his lips just made the prince's frown deepen. "My prince?"

Charles fingers touched his face slowly and he nuzzled up against the palm, kissing his wrist. Erik watched several emotions both familiar and unfamiliar play over Charles face - lust, he recognized easily, fondness, confusion, maybe sadness. Erik brought Charles down into a soft kiss, and the two of them stayed like that for just a moment before Charles pulled away.

"We have a long day and a great deal of ground to cover." Of course, always on the move.

As soon as Charles left, he took care of packing the contents of his tent, and then hurried over to help Hank with his own tent, the two of them picking up breakfast and Erik bringing Charles a sandwich that actually had fresh egg in it that made Erik's mouth water even though his own bread, apples and cheese was more than adequate.

"You see something you like?" Charles asked, playing with him, offering up the sandwich, about a bite left.

"Always." His eyes were on Charles though, and the prince... _blushed_ a brilliant bright scarlet the likes of which Erik had never seen, not even when Charles was hot and flush, sliding against him in bed. He took the sandwich, though, and then kissed Charles' fingers lightly, the affection completely unremarked on by anyone else around them even though they were hardly alone in the middle of camp.

"I believe I said something about not being a distraction," Charles voice was teasing, but Erik could tell there was something hard underneath it.

"Then I will be out of your sight all day, and tonight--"

"I will continue to need you out of my sight," Charles sighed, hands curled into Erik's wrists. "I am leading a battle tomorrow, Erik."

"I will be thinking of you."

Despite the display, both of affection and... something more, Erik couldn't manage to feel embarrassed. It had felt strangely good to see Charles blush, to see his mouth quirk with affection, to watch how easily the prince's mind would turn towards him. Hank had seen, and Hank was blushed the bright red that Erik couldn't quite believe wasn't staining his own cheeks.

"Do not tease him, Erik."

He blinked at the physician, shocked. "I--" Erik thought he hadn't been teasing, of if he had been that was only natural with the way Charles was always grinning and smiling, using raunchy entendres and curling his fingers into Erik's skin, possessive and hot.

Hank shook his head. "Maybe for today he could let himself believe you were sincere, but you cannot play with him forever."

"He--" Suddenly he couldn't finish a sentence, or even a thought.

Hank left him, and Erik thought he might have actually upset him. He, Emma and Raven didn't talk to him at all that day while they walked - or at least he walked, Emma and Raven rode - down the Street. Hank couldn't avoid him forever, though, and Erik tried his luck with the man after they'd powered through over twelve miles that morning and they were scrambling to get water bottles filled before they did at least another twelve. Hank thought they were over seventeen from the crossing that Charles had wanted to make, and despite the pace they'd pushed the last few days Erik didn't think they would make it early enough to also rest the night.

"What if I did love him?"

"You don't."

Erik couldn't make a retort, not a wholly truthful one. "But what if I did?"

"Erik... Charles has given you enough. I will not teach you how to hurt him even more."

He followed after Hank, back to the train and they were moving again almost as soon as Erik returned, lunch had been a very short affair, barely long enough to water the horses and Erik's stomach was growling from missed lunch. Hank had surprised him, he'd gone to Charles because it was what he had wanted, and Hank thought that had hurt Charles, though the flirting hurt him... Erik didn't know how, but this had gotten horribly complicated.

Feeling nothing for Charles would have been less complicated, but... he couldn't.

Maybe if Charles felt nothing for him, he could have ignored it, but it was starting to become painfully obvious that Charles...

They pushed well passed dusk, and finally ended up on the banks of the Nene where they would sleep and then Charles' army would face the Ninth - assuming Charles' information was correct. He hadn't seen Charles all day and any scouts that may have come or gone had gone without him hearing their news. Tomorrow...

He went to bed still conflicted, not sure how he was supposed to feel. Tomorrow could break Charles' rebellion - his fight for independence - and Erik should want that more than anything. He didn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Notes:
> 
> Torcs: Although they are Celtic in origins, Romans sometimes wore them to represent valor/etc, the exact nature of what torcs mean is sketchy at best. I've taken a smidge of liberties here.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Done! I hope everyone enjoyed my self-indulgent history porn.
> 
> Historical notes at the bottom.

The entire camp was up before dawn, Erik included. He helped Hank with the tent, moving it closer to the river while Charles and his army formed up on the other side. It was a good position, poor if he needed to retreat, but good to keep his flanks protected if the Romans chose to advance against him. Some of the men wore armor that was not unlike the Roman's, but it was dark leather with bits of metal rather than the pure iron or steel of a Roman suit.

His and Hank's tent on the hill apparently became the place to stand and watch, with Emma and Raven joining them a little later when the sun broke over the horizon. He got Hank's breakfast, and his own, and a few apples that apparently were for both of them. Everywhere he traveled through the camp he got... _looks_.

He'd seen those looks several times before, in the home of his family, looks that wives gave his mother when they knew that his father was going into be in a battle soon. Erik wondered if they would be so sympathetic if they knew how jumbled his thoughts were.

Erik ended up eating a hard cooked egg, some game fowl, and a huge crust of bread while Hank did the same. His tent was set up, well aired, ready for the worst of the battle wounded. Emma stood back, her and Raven setting over a fire and burning branches that stunk. Some sort of ritual.

"Who are they praying to?"

"Andraste," Hank answered. "She is the one who Emma and Charles thank for their victory four years ago, so it is only fitting that she be called on again."

"Are we sure the Ninth will be here?"

Hank nodded. "Positive, I'm certain scouts will bring us more news when they have it."

Erik paced, back and forth, wondering how large a blasphemy it would be to pray to Minerva for Charles' victory against the Romans. He put the thought aside. Erik had never been religious, praying and looking towards the heavens had never swayed a battle before.

He joined Emma and Raven next to their fire.

"I do not think Andraste would care for your prayers, Roman." Raven frowned at him across the fire.

"Minerva would not care for them either, Princess."

Raven looked at him, curious, eyes wary, and then she handed him a fistful of whatever leaves they were burning and Erik took them and held them against his knee. Raven threw a few more on and closed her eyes, mumbling to herself. Erik looked over and saw how tense her face was. He threw a few leaves on the fire.

 _Please bring Charles back, safe and alive._ That he could ask for without reservations. He looked at Emma across from him, her mouth was tight and he could tell that she was also asking for something similar. Looking along towards the battlefield he saw the Legion come into view. It was the full Legion, Erik took a deep breath and squeezed his eyes shut.

 _Andraste... please see Charles through this. Please... bring Charles victory._ He threw another fistful of leaves on the fire and hoped the difficult lump in his own throat wouldn't offend the goddess too much. He stood up, feeling awkward and nervous now that he'd given actual words to everything he had been feeling for the last few days.

"I wish I was down there," Erik mumbled, standing next to Hank as he looked out over the field.

Hank eyed him, face unreadable.

"With Charles."

Hank's face relaxed and he nodded. "He will be fine."

Raven finally stood and came up to stand on Hank's other side and threaded her fingers through his, her hand rubbing up and down his arm. Hank pulled her a little closer, wrapping an arm around her shoulder.

"He's done well, so far," Erik observed.

"All he did is wake up!" Raven protested.

"Yes, but he woke up here, just across the river. I don't know where the Ninth made their camp, but it was several miles from here. Charles' troops are fresher, and he's selected the terrain he wanted, so they will have to accept his terms or not confront him."

Raven nodded, toed her shoes against the ground. "Charles is the one who understands all that."

"The General of the Ninth has decided to form up in lines to start. They will probably move to a wedge first, it's designed to provide coverage so that each man may guard his fellows more and the only way to counter it is to flank appropriately." Erik pointed to the wings of Charles' army. "That is why Charles has several horsemen along the sides, so they can... pinch the army, for lack of a better word."

"Will they throw their spears?" Raven frowned, looking out over at the armies, and Erik could see that several of the legionaries had their pila out.

"Maybe. It seems they are not planning it at the moment." Which was odd, really Erik thought it might be best to at least loose one. "They likely will keep several in reserve to handle Charles' horses."

The Celts began their own attack, hurling stones from slings which were not as effective as a pila, a lucky sling shot might down a man, but a javelin could down a man easily, and take his shield if it didn't hit him first. Most of the Centurions had ordered their men to form up into a more protective formation - testudo - and that seemed to be what Charles was waiting for.

His entire front line pressed forward, and Erik watched in shock as they loosed their own javelins - Roman style - that jammed in hard to most of the Roman front line's shields. The men scrambled to reconfigure themselves. "Dear gods..."

"What? What!" Raven looked out at the lines, trying to see what had made Erik so shocked.

"The javelins, the ones Charles used, they punch into a shield, make it too heavy to maneuver properly, you have to stop and break your line, or give up the shield for lost." The legionaries in the font lines retreated, and Erik tapped his foot, impatient, waiting for Charles to...

The front lines of the Celts charged forward, some formed perfect wedges, others just close approximations. The Romans formed back up into lines and another round of pila flew from the back of the Celtic lines, a few aimed too low and hit the charging Celts in the back but no one even paused as they charged forward, smashing into the lines. The Romans broke, just enough, even across the field Erik could see hundreds of legionaries who were not backed up against another legionary, some were cut down almost as soon as Erik noticed them.

The Celts were taking heavy losses as well - their armor, their shields and their swords were not as high quality as the Romans and more than once a dented sword meant the second blow from a Roman legionary meant a shattered helmet and a shattered head. He lost sight of Charles for seconds at a time as the man led punishing assaults on the Roman right flank, infantry working in front of it when the Romans tried to bring out their javelins to strike the Celtic horses.

It felt like hours, hundreds and hundreds of men were struck down every time he looked and as the battle raged Raven started to whimper next to him. Hank wrapped his arms around her but soon afterwards the wounded from the back lines started to pour in and as much as Raven hated him, he was a suitable person to bunch her fists in the fabric of his tunic and shiver against.

"He'll be fine," Erik assured her, not wanting to touch her for fear of making her more scared. "I can see him even now. I think he must be trying to force them to break to the left. He's doing well, truly."

His own encouragement died on his lips as he saw Charles struck down. Erik wasn't certain what had done it, but he could see Charles falling from his horse, collapsed into the melee, swallowed by the sea of soldiers that pressed back and forth.

"Charles..." His voice was barely a whisper. He took a deep breath, shooting a murderous glance at the burning fire, as though it was a goddess's fault that Charles had fallen. The flank wavered, the infantry fell back, the cavalry's movements were less certain. The men formed up, square, protective in all directions.

Erik breathed barely easier, he could see the centurions near Charles scent blood. Either they knew it was the Rex Britannia or they just sensed the flagging discipline on the side and they pushed forward, wedging into the men as they tried to protect Charles. They couldn't risk pulling back to outflank and had to hold their ground.

"Come on..." A few Roman centuries hooked around, pressing the square of infantry from the other side. Slowly a few of the men closest to where Charles had fallen realized what had happened and swarmed around, crushing into the backs of the Romans.

The battlefield medics picked away at the fallen in the back, unconcerned.

Without even thinking, Erik pulled away from Raven and charged down from their hill. He charged across the river and Erik picked up sword, helm and shield from the nearest body, grabbing one of the medic teams around the shoulder and pointing franticly. He checked behind him only once to see them following.

His sword found the backs of three Romans before he pushed through the back of the square, Charles was laying on the ground, moaning, two more Romans had broken through and the Celts tried to harry them while holding the shield wall. Erik downed them both without thinking.

"Charles, hang on." He had a javelin in his thigh, deep, which he was still clutching at desperately. They couldn't carry him like that. Pulling it out might mean death, there were vessels in there that could bleed a man dry in a minute if they were cut. One of the medics grabbed the javelin. "No!"

He grabbed the man's hands, placed them at the base. "Hold it tight." Charles mumbled something in gaelic and the medic nodded, nodded at them both. He pointed to the other medic, showed him grabbing the javelin as well. It took three swings to shatter the iron, Charles wincing with every hit.

The three of them fumbled Charles onto a stretcher and charged out from the square, the lines of the Celts formed back up pressing the attack again and Erik could finally breathe easier, but only for a moment.

Blood was pooling steadily under Charles' thigh.

"Go faster, damn it!" He yelled at the medics and they crashed into the water of the river, picking across and Erik spun back to check the battle just in time to take a javelin to his shield, a lucky shot, but almost a luckier one in his back.

The trip up the small hill took hours in Erik's mind, and he pressed into Hank's sick tent to find him working on a man with a cut to his chest. "Charles is hurt badly."

Hank scrambled to clear off some space, and Charles finally was put back on the ground, Hank and Erik looming over him immediately. "Get off his armor."

Erik pulled off the leather while Hank cut Charles out of his pants. That was when he noticed that Charles also had a deep cut across his rib, it hadn't pierced anything, but it was also bleeding freely. He grabbed one of the ointments he knew was for cuts, wiped it down. Charles hissed. He tried to ignore it, but it made him wince in sympathy and then pressed a padded strip of fabric to the cut itself. He grabbed Charles' hand, pressed his palm down on the wound, and then forced his own hand on top, pinning as much pressure on the wound as he could.

"Erik...?"

"Shh, no talking." He found himself clinging to Charles' bloody hand holding onto his fingers and squeezing tight.

"Ahhh!" He shouted out, and Erik looked down to see Hank... carefully stabbing a knife into Charles' thigh.

"Hold him down, Erik, his leg, if he moves I may cut something vital."

Erik took a deep breath and looked down at Charles' brilliant blue eyes, full of every sort of pain Erik could imagine, and then he kissed him, hard. Then he moved to straddle Charles, his own knee pressed down on Charles' lower thigh, his hands pinning his hip. Charles struggled - he struggled not to fight, twitching away from the pain of Hank's surgery, until he suddenly stopped moving.

"Charles? Charles!"

Hank stopped, leaned over and pressed bloody hands to Charles' throat and Erik thought he might stop breathing. "Just passed out from the pain. It's kinder than the alternative."

Erik couldn't see the rest of the operation through thick tears of relief.

* * *

When Charles was finally resting, Erik headed out of the tent and watched what ended up being the last throes of the battle. A force of Celts - Brigantes, apparently - had arrived soon after the fighting had been engaged and the two forces crashed together, ripping apart the Roman legion. Erik should have felt more conflicted, but he couldn't quite manage it.

"How is he?" Raven asked, her own hands curled into fists as she watched the end of the battle.

"Hank says he will live. It will take a few days to be certain he will walk again." The damage to the leg had been extensive, and Erik didn't know enough about wounds to make a real judgement.

Raven nodded, and then walked up to him. Erik braced himself, expecting a slap, but instead the girl wrapped her arms around his waist and hugged tightly. "Alex said... that they couldn't have kept protecting him for much longer."

Erik nodded, awkwardly pressing a hand to her shoulder. "No, the formation they were using wasn't going to stand up for long. There is a reason many Generals lead from the back, and it is not just a desire to not be struck with a sword."

"So.... thanks." The half-hearted tone of Raven's voice was undercut by how furiously she was clinging to him.

"Am I acceptable, now?"

"No." The quick answer stung for a few moments, but then Raven grinned at him. "Just slightly better than acceptable, I guess."

"You have acquired something of a... following, Erik," Emma said, standing towards the crest of the hill, looking down over the battle. "Scott has decided you are a fair fighter."

Erik looked over to where Emma was gazing, the troops picking through the dead and wounded, bringing more injured soldiers across the river and to Hank's tent. The injured Romans received either a quick death for the ones who were too injured for treatment, or they were carefully bound in ropes. "Are they heading to Londinium?"

Emma nodded. "We may relieve them of some of their support staff."

"You get good help that way..." He sighed, turning back to the tent where Charles was still sleeping. "Do you mind if I put myself to work? Most of your army does not speak latin."

Emma's face, usually cold and icy, softened just a touch. "Of course. I will send a runner for you if there is any change."

He strapped on a sword and dagger, and then slung a shield over his back - no reason to walk out unprepared, there were still pockets of fighting. The ford was still shallow and he slogged his way across, the Celts pressed against the river were all obviously dead, fewer than he would have thought, but still a great number. A few children from the camp ran through the battlefield, picking up fallen pila - obviously the source of the pila Charles used.

He waded through the bodies, listening for sounds of life, when Alex came up and clasped him on the shoulder. "The prince?"

Erik nodded, smiled, hopefully in a way that conveyed the right mix of emotions. Alex relaxed immediately, clasped Erik into an awkward hug. "The Romans?" He asked, curious. He didn't know how many of them had gotten a speech or explanation when they were marched south after his failed attack, but he thought it would be wise to mention it to the captured Romans here.

Alex pointed, and he found himself led to a string of Romans, all of them stripped of armor and weapons looking murderous.

"Celtic bitch!" One of the men towards the beginning of the line shouted at Erik as soon as he approached. Alex, even with no idea what had been said came forward and cuffed the man violently in response. "At least we bagged your fucking king."

Erik felt his temper flare and the urge to strike the man was surprisingly high. "I am afraid Nero will have to continue to be disappointed on that count," Erik answered him, watching with grim satisfaction as the smug look on the soldier's face evaporated. "You will be traveling to Londinium and I recommend you not give your captors a hard time. It will make your life a great deal less painful."

He felt a bit like a traitor, telling these men - Romans - to accept Charles, or at least their position here as captives. And yet... he'd made his choice. He didn't even realize it until right then, but he had. No going back.

The slaves - the ones who had nearly gotten trampled by the Brigantes - were also bound towards the back of the lines and Erik made his way over, carefully interviewing them, getting to know them, doing his best to put them at ease. He remembered from Hank that this was where some of the best men might come from, men and women who served Rome because it was required and... well, changing allegiances sounded less bad when it was not at the point of a sword.

His musings were cut short by a runner coming down from the camp and saying only 'he's awake', but he wasn't able to answer any questions, obviously he'd just been sent with the message. Erik was back up to the tents in a matter of minutes. Charles had been moved to his own tent, white as a ghost but awake. Emma was there at his bedside, Raven as well, and Erik slipped in next to Charles, sitting, curled up close against his head.

"Erik..." He looked confused, but grateful, and Erik reached down to run his fingers through Charles' sweat-damp hair. "How went the battle?"

"The Brigantes forces came in time to squeeze the Romans. Alex and Scott are coordinating the prisoners and dividing them up into groups to head for Londinium and the ones to leave with us." Charles closed his eyes, nodded. "We took heavy losses, but Hank is still working."

"We?"

Trust Charles to notice that even while he was half asleep and weak with pain. Erik didn't answer, just ran his fingers over Charles' cheek and then his nose, touching just to reassure himself that Charles was there.

"Charles," Emma interrupted the moment. "Moira will be here tomorrow."

"Right..." Charles took a deep breath. "Would you... mind terribly assuring the men that I have not died?" Erik heard the unspoken 'and get out of here'. Emma did as well, and although Erik expected something cruel from Emma she gave them both a warm smile.

"I haven't been properly assured you have not died," Erik said, fingers running over Charles' throat now, teasing there.

"And what would it take for you to be certain?"

Erik leaned down, kissed Charles very softly on the lips. Charles tried to press up into the kiss only to fall back down onto his furs, groaning in frustration.

"You would pick now to be willing."

"I'm just a very difficult slave is all, my prince."

"Not a slave..." Charles sighed. "I have no intention of keeping you if I cannot have you honestly, Erik."

Erik pulled off the weapons he had been carrying, stripped out of his tunic and then crawled under the furs that currently blanketed Charles. He was careful, very careful, not to run his fingers over where he knew Charles had been cut, and he didn't dare reach lower either. "Then you will have to settle for keeping me."

Charles hitched up his arm, left it to fall over his eyes, leaving them half hidden from Erik. "I... I am afraid I have done nothing to deserve you, Erik."

"Maybe..." Erik pressed himself against Charles as firmly as he could considering how bruised he knew the prince was, but he left his hand on Charles' chest, touching him slowly. "Still, it seems my mind was more than capable of choosing a side when I saw you had fallen."

It was just that simple, he had - unthinking - killed a handful of Romans just to try to save Charles.

"I... I killed your father."

His heart twisted in that moment, and the idea that Charles thought that somehow made him... unworthy, perhaps, or at least unworthy of Erik, hurt him. Erik closed his eyes, pressed his forehead to Charles' shoulder. "I know."

"You know?" Charles tried to get up again, winced, and Erik very firmly pressed his hand against Charles' shoulders.

"I am going to have to insist you stay laying down, my prince. You are going to tear something and Hank will be very mad at me." He smiled, felt his cheeks warm and flush at that. "Hank told me, days ago. He must have thought I already knew... why else would I have come after you, I suppose?"

"Of course." Charles kept his eyes closed, then, and Erik shifted up so he could actually look down at him. He pulled down the furs, looking at the nasty gash that covered his rib. It was starting to bruise, hard and angry and red, Erik wouldn't be surprised if he was a mottled purple in a day or so. He peeled down the blanket further, ignoring Charles' nakedness and then seeing the wound in his thigh. It was... covered, at least, but he could see that it was still bleeding lightly with a welling of red against the top.

Erik didn't touch it directly, instead feeling up and down Charles' leg, fingers touching lightly. Charles could at least wiggle his toes, and he felt leg muscles tense under his fingers. Good.

"You need to stop getting injured... Charles."

"I will take it under advisement." He smiled up at Erik, almost laughing. "It has been a few years since I started training with Alex and the others, you would think I could trust them to handle a battle, but it is very difficult to let go."

"After..." He looked away, trying to collect his thoughts and deal with the twisted up emotion that spiked the moment he tried to think. "After your marriage, you will need to concentrate your energy on ruling, not conquering."

"That again..." Charles sighed and pulled Erik down to him, and the two of them curled up like that. "I do not want to deal with that at the moment... We have a few more months at least while we continue with the conquest of the Brigantes. Then we will need a diplomatic solution with Rome. I do not like killing, Erik, and I do not like fighting. It would be sweet relief to finally put down the sword."

"I think you will be very ... princely." He would, Charles was born for the position.

"And will you be there with me at my side?" Charles reached up, fingers playing against Erik's throat and Erik finally sighed, leaned down, and kissed Charles properly for the first time in days. It was perfect, hot and slow and even though he knew some of Charles' whimpers were from pain not entirely pleasure he enjoyed it immensely.

"Yes, even when you are an idiot and get yourself so badly injured I have to charge through swarms of Romans to help you."

Apparently that was more than good enough for Charles.

The addition of Moira - and Venutius - in the procession traveling north to bring war to the Brigantes made Erik's life more complicated than he would have liked. The fact that she was obviously _not_ smitten with Charles only made it more difficult. They spent a full two days tending to their dead and sending the Roman soldiers south and Erik worked to select the slaves that were interested in staying on in support of the army. Charles... stayed in bed.

He knew it would take some time before Charles was back up and about but it was starting to concern him, spending all night with his arms wrapped desperately around Charles wasn't a particular comfort when he woke in the morning to Charles obviously in pain and barely able to sit, much less stand. By the end of the third day, however, towards the evening, he saw a familiar brown mop of hair weaving itself through the camp attracting shouts and attention everywhere he went, like always.

Charles couldn't get away from the throngs of well-wishers long enough to speak to Erik, but he could see the way Charles smiled for everyone even as he had to lean against a makeshift crutch. Hank caught him like that, just leaning against a tent pole and watching Charles.

"Full recovery, I think."

Erik let out the breath he had been holding - if only in his own mind - concerning that. Charles was brilliant, a fantastic leader, but he didn't think the Celts would stand for him long if he couldn't still ride and fight. "I'm just glad to see him smiling again, not just deathly pale..."

"You've been good for him." Erik looked at Hank, surprised to hear the man say it. They hadn't spoken much after the injury, just enough for Erik to know Charles was doing fine, but he hadn't expected that. "I could answer your question... the one where you asked what you could do if you loved him."

"I---" He closed his eyes, rubbing his hands over his face. "I don't suppose it matters really, with Moira..."

"Erik, _if_ the marriage happens at all, both of them still know where they stand with each other."

"If?"

"I do not know what they must have thought in Rome, but the marriage is far from sealed, Venutius offered it to get Charles up north at all, it was smarter for him to consolidate the south first. As it stands..." Hank shrugged. The look that Hank gave Erik told him that _he_ was a major factor that had changed in the last week, and he blushed.

Still, Hank held up his arm, showing him a thin leather bracelet that he'd often seen but never really thought about that the physician wore around his arm.

"Raven has a matching one," Hank explained. Suddenly Erik had something he needed to finish before that night.

Charles was dozing, lazy, when Erik finally arrived back in his tent - their tent - Charles propped up on a few pillows and drinking slowly at some wine, likely a mix of medicinal and to unwind from a day spent being poked and prodded. "Erik!"

The grin on Charles' face, sloppy as it was, warmed his heart. "Hank tells me you are feeling a good deal better."

"Yes, tomorrow I may even be allowed up on a horse and we can continue north. Venutius is getting quite antsy. I understand his anxiety." Charles waved his hand over and Erik slid into his arms, kissing his neck softly.

"You are not riding into battle any time soon," Erik insisted. "Even if I must pin you down or tie you up."

"That would be a very agreeable promise..." Charles smiled, putting down his wine glass and sliding his fingers along Erik's shoulder and farther down.

Erik just gaped, he knew Charles was young, and had a sexual stamina that Erik could only envy even though he was hardly old himself, but Charles was... "You have a great many ideas about what is appropriate, my prince."

"And I would do so many of them but... I am afraid I've more than exhausted myself today." Charles sighed, letting himself lay down on his bed, he did look exhausted.

"Maybe you should just lay back and enjoy yourself, then?" It was the first time since... since before the battle that Charles hadn't looked like he was courting death if Erik leaned on him wrong, and it was nice to see some heat in his eyes and it would be the first time his own revelation was tested.

"If you insist!" Charles answered, but it was obvious his mind was screaming 'yes'. "I may be a bit of a disappointment."

Erik didn't think that was possible, even falling asleep next to Charles was not disappointing. Hank might disapprove, but he knew the personal chest he left for Charles' use had some ointment in it that was slick and thick and Erik could think of nothing better than using it to give Charles what he wanted - what Erik had been too scared to give him before.

"Erik...?"

Before he could lose his nerve, he pulled the blankets down off of Charles and started to unlace his breeches. Getting them down and off was a slow, laborious affair so that he wouldn't rub against the not healed leg wound, and could move his leg despite the still-healing muscles of his leg. "I've never..." He knew the mechanics, knew it was going to hurt, but he wanted Charles to know, to know for certain, that Erik was his.

"Come up here." Charles patted his stomach, in between his cock, already mostly hard, and the cut in his rib. Erik came up, straddled Charles along his slim waist. "I do not want to hurt you, Erik... shouldn't even let you..." He shook his head, though, stretched enough to get the ointment that Erik had brought over and smeared two fingers with it. "Erik, love, you must tell me if you are in pain."

He was a soldier long before he was Charles' lover, he could take pain.

Charles must have read his thoughts somehow, from his eyes. "I know you may not believe this... but you should enjoy this as much as me." Charles free hand reached up, touched Erik's cock and he hissed, stiffening immediately.

The slow stroke of Charles' hand was a pleasant distraction, warm and welcome, but as soon as the slick feeling of Charles' finger touched his opening he tensed, not in pleasure. He gritted his teeth, wishing he could relax, wishing he could let Charles in, but Charles didn't seem surprised or upset, just swirled a finger against his hole, leaving a slick trail there, massaging.

As much as he was anticipating pain - despite what Charles assured him - it was impossible not to enjoy Charles' touch. One finger continued to swirl his opening, and the other slid behind his balls, pressing hard enough to make him shiver; the pleasure was enough for him to relax and Charles slipped one digit inside of him. "You like that, don't you?" Charles pressed against his balls again, and Erik whined from the sensation.

The intrusion was unexpected, just one of Charles' fingers, and it pressed inside of him farther, he could _feel_ Charles probing inside of him and he fought down the urge to wiggle away. A few seconds later Charles did _something_ and he saw white, staggering so much he had to brace himself on Charles' shoulders.

"'s good, isn't it?" He sounded so cocky.

After that, every slow thrust of Charles' fingers hit the same spot inside of him and he whimpered with every thrust. Erik - only minutes ago tense and coiled - found himself limp and boneless, every muscle in his body relaxed except his cock, hard and leaking against Charles' belly.

"Yes... I had no idea--"

Charles took his finger out, which was wrong, terribly wrong, and he needed something back inside of him and then thankfully, mercifully, Charles pressed two fingers inside of him, thicker, stretching him more, but he didn't tense against the intrusion just expecting the awkward-but-good sensations to return. His fingers started their relentless assault inside him again, making him shiver, arms trembling while he gripped Charles for support. When he finally looked down, he saw his prince's frightening blue eyes, bright and shining and his, filled with lust.

"I want to see you do this to yourself, sliding your fingers inside of you, thinking about how you want my cock." Filthy... Charles' filthy, precise latin would always be his undoing.

He pulled out again, grabbed for more ointment and then slid more fingers inside him again, leaving him even more wet and slick as he spread his fingers wide, opening him. "Charles... please..."

Charles ignored his begging, and instead dragged him down and into a kiss. The two of them moaned and whimpered, and Erik wrapped his arms around Charles, fingers tangling in his prince's hair. Charles - his prince - _his_ prince. They were connected and he fit in Charles' arms better than anywhere else he'd ever been in his life.

He never wanted to leave.

"Erik... love." Charles' teeth grazed Erik's neck, his tongue slid down his throat.

"I'm yours, Charles, my prince." He was gasping and his body loose, relaxed. He trusted Charles with his body - his heart. "Take me, take me harder."

It wasn't gaelic, but Charles' collapsed back onto his bed and his blue eyes were impossibly dark with lust. He drew out his fingers, and Erik glanced down to see him start to slick himself.

"Slowly, Erik. Very slowly."

Erik scooted down, brushing his ass against Charles' tip, remembering how that feeling had excited Charles days before. He tried to push down, it hurt and he winced.

"Shhh, relax."

He took a ragged breath, glanced down into those eyes. He saw the lust, and he saw the incredible fondness there. He slid down again, legs trembling, and felt Charles' thick head slide into him. He groaned, half pleasure, half pain, sliding down and feeling a full, stretched feeling. Erik sat himself up straight and lifted himself experimentally, searching for that spot Charles' fingers found so easily.

Charles' hands, one still slick with ointment, grabbed his hips and guided Erik, he could tell Charles was desperately fighting the urge to thrust, the muscles in his leg not ready for the exertion, every inch of Charles' chest, his shoulders, his face, showed how much he was holding himself back and he was taut and beautiful. Erik allowed himself to be directed, sliding up and down, his hips tilted just enough that each thrust made him see white. He never wanted anything else but to have Charles buried inside of him, cock hard, he didn't need anything else, ever.

He squeezed himself around Charles' and the prince came, whimpering. "Erik... love..." He took Erik's cock in his hand, pumping with his fist. It took several strokes, firm and sure, before Erik came over Charles' hand and stomach. He clung to Charles, hands tangled against his shoulders.

"Charles..."

They sat like that for several moments, Erik finally noticing the pleasant stretching sensation had been replaced with soreness, like muscles long disused or a dull ache, and he pulled himself up and off, collapsing in a spent heap next to Charles.

"I hope that wasn't nearly so terrifying as you might have expected."

He grunted, nose buried against Charles' chest. "When can we do it again?"

Charles laughed, wrapped has arms around Erik and pulled him close. "You will not thank me if we do that again tonight, probably not tomorrow either, and it will be quite the decision, walking or horseback when we move tomorrow."

He leaned into Charles' shoulder and whined, thinking of how unfair it would be to have each shift of the saddle remind him of the ache he was already starting to feel.

"And it is highly unfair for you to enjoy yourself that thoroughly. I insist on having you inside of me as soon as I can move my leg without pain."

Erik was shocked by the request - almost an order - but he really shouldn't have been. Charles was... unusual, always had been. Erik could see that wasn't going to change just because he was injured or anything else.

"Done," Erik slid back into bed beside Charles, enjoying the way he ached and the way Charles wrapped his arms around him.

Nothing was fixed, not really. Rome still loomed in the back of his thoughts with a decidedly mixed set of feelings. Erik didn't understand Celtic politics, but he was going to have to learn, and quickly. The web of impossibilities that stood in front of Charles was thick, and Erik found he was willing to fight them with Charles.

The man was ridiculous, naive, and gorgeous, but if he could somehow manage to overlook Erik's father, what he had done to Briton and Charles' family, Erik knew he couldn't help but follow. He was... exceptional, and Erik found that he could stand to try Charles' dream.

Erik kissed his prince's head, and even though he knew Charles couldn't read his thoughts he felt as though he might know exactly what he was thinking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Andraste - Inceni goddess, possibly of war, she was the goddess that Boudicca called on in her rebellion against the Romans in 60-61AD. Very little is truly known about Celtic gods and goddesses.
> 
> Roman Tactics - Erik explains most of the tactics that are going on to Raven. Testudo is a formation where a century forms up with shields overlapping and making an impenetrable shell, named for a tortoise; it is an excellent defense at range, but poor for close quarters combat because it leaves the defenders with little room to maneuver. Wedge formations are used to this day as a shock and mob dispersal tactic, the configuration means that every member of the outer wedge can cover his fellow; only an extreme flanking maneuver can collapse the wedge. Square formation allows for guarding on all sides, but is weak to ranged attacks or a wedge.
> 
> Pila usage - is as described by Erik, the pila/javelin punches into the shield and makes it hard to wield and it must be discarded or cut off.

**Author's Note:**

> Boudica's Rebellion - In approximately AD 60, Prasutagus, ruler of the Iceni Tribe of Celts died. He was a client king of Rome, and at that time the tradition was that the king was expected to will his lands to Rome. He chose to instead will half of his lands to the Roman Empire, and the rest to his daughters with his wife Boudica (played by Emma in this fic) as their regent. Prasutagus' daughters have been replaced by Charles and Raven in this fic. Boudica's daughters were raped and Boudica herself was beaten for her husband's arrogance; she rallied several of the south eastern Celtic tribes and marched on London, Colchester, and St. Albans, before the rebellion was finally defeated at the Battle of Watling Street and Boudica was either killed or committed suicide.
> 
> Ermine Street - A Roman road that travels from London (Londinium) to York (Eboracum) by way of Lincoln (Lindum)
> 
> The Battle of Watling Street - In actual history, this was the final battle of Boudica's rebellion against the Roman occupation. Roman General - and Governor of Briton - Gaius Suetonius Paulinus formed up in a narrow defile to stand against a vastly superior (in numbers) Celtic fighting force. (Think 300 - the movie, basically he did that)
> 
> Gaius Suetonius Paulinus - Roman General and Governor of Briton until post Boudica's rebellion, in real history he was reassigned after the revolt for fear his violent subjugation of the Celts was causing dissent. Erik is his son. Did he have a real son? Who knows! (Eriqus - the name I've given Erik, is not a real Roman name, it's totally bullshit, roll with it! Charles calling Erik 'Erik' is also pretty rude by Roman conventions)
> 
> Cogidubnus - A client kings of Rome. Cogidubnus was the king of the Regni (near modern Chichester), and actually took a Roman style name and may have had his kingdom solidified via direct military help from Rome.
> 
> Cartimandua - She was the queen of the Brigantes (modern north England). She sided heavily with Rome in the time around Boudica's rebellion. Her husband Venutius, did not agree with her decision to ally with Rome and committed to at least two rebellions against Cartimandua in the time around Boudica's rebellion. Moira has been inserted into the fic as their daughter - who went with Venutius. In 51 AD a resistance leader named Caratacus sought sanctuary with her after he was defeated in Wales, but she turned him over to Rome.
> 
> Roman (and Celtic) views on homosexuality - Romans in general believed that being the submissive/penetrated partner in a homosexual relationship was deeply shameful. Freemen/citizens would not be expected to be the penetrated partner, slaves - and prisoners of war - were used as sexual bottoms. Being the topping partner would be considered fine. Celtic views on homosexuality are presented through the lens of Roman historians writing about their practices and may have been meant to display how barbaric/shameful Celtic behavior was. Nonetheless, our knowledge of Celtic sources suggest that some tribes found homosexuality acceptable with no distinction between topping/bottoming as particularly virtuous or shameful.
> 
> SEMI-SPOILERS FOR THE REST OF THE FIC FOLLOW:
> 
> This fic contains: non-graphic mentions/implications of past rape of Charles and Raven. Neither Charles nor Raven are narrators in the piece and do not reflect on their past assault. Both have different personality/behavior displays that should be recognizable as that of assault survivors. The underaged tag is used because both Charles and Raven would have been in their early teens at the time, Charles is 'legal' at the time of the fic.
> 
> Erik is the narrator of the piece and reflects (non-graphically) on his belief that he is going to be forcibly raped. He is not *forcibly* raped, however he is used/assaulted in a manner that is non-consensual due to his position as Charles' slave. He - in general - enjoys the assault because it's sexually gratifying and comes to fall in love with Charles despite his captivity.
> 
> Obviously this is an idealized/fetishized description of non-con and is not meant to suggest in any way that this actually happening to real people would be sexy.


End file.
